Gigolo Joe, What Do You Know?
by Time Lady Quazar
Summary: Sorry the end's a little rushed, but I don't know how long my computer is going to accept this site. (It didn't for a long time, so I wanted to get this done quick before my 'puter decided to boot me off again!) A.I. fic, sequel to
1. Default Chapter

  
  


Author's note: This as a sequel to "A Many Splendored Thing." I still don't own any characters besides the ones I created for this story, and even then you could probably argue that the concept for the character Grizz, and possibly Roger, is owned by whoever has any rights to the move "A.I." 

  
  
  
  


Gigolo Joe, What Do You Know?

By Time Lady Quasar

  
  


Joe sat on the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt. His shirt, not Harold's; the man had taken him on a shopping spree that morning, had him sized, and bought an entire wardrobe, everything from boxer shorts to evening clothes. The Mecha still didn't see the point of underwear, but since it seemed to make the Orgas in his life more comfortable, he was willing to wear them. Everything else was perfect. Not as flashy as his former costume, perhaps, but when Harold had given him the choice, he'd thrown everything but his patent-leather shoes and vinyl coat into the incinerator. The shoes he kept because they'd been made specifically for his feet, his coat because Tabby liked it.

  
  


He'd just finished with the last button when the bathroom door opened, closed, and the bed bounced underneath him. Tabby's arms wrapped around his chest from behind, hugging tight, and her brightly-hued head lay against his shoulder. Resting his cheek against the top of her head, he reached up to capture her hand, carefully avoiding her wrist, which was bruised and bandaged, still painful after her tribulations at the hands of Lord Johnson-Johnson.

  
  


Thumb tracing the back of her hand, running lightly over each knuckle, Joe felt her soul-deep sigh against his back and smiled at the contentment laced in that small sound. He was designed, built, and programmed to please, and such proof of success still had a kind of power over him. That it came from Tabitha only added to the reward. His experiences might have shown him what it meant to anger, but it also showed him the richness found in loyalty and friendship.

  
  


"You're thinking," Tabby accused him. Turning his head, Joe found himself looking into her cool grey eyes. She smiled a little ruefully, rubbing her cheek lightly against the top of his shoulder. "You were so serious. I hope you weren't thinking about me with that look on your face."

  
  


"Not only you," Joe answered truthfully, the only way he could answer. He might hedge, but telling direct falsehoods was still beyond him.

  
  


"What else were you thinking about, then?"

  
  


"The past."

  
  


Sighing again, Tabitha kissed his cheek, so lightly that he felt her breath against his flesh more intensely than her lips. "You looked so sad. I wish I could make it go away so you wouldn't have to think such serious thoughts."

  
  


"No. Then things would be different. Or just the same as they were before," Joe answered softly.

  
  


"We wouldn't be here," Tabby whispered.

"No. We wouldn't." With an attention to her mood that was beginning to resemble Grizz's utter devotion, Joe chuckled in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. "At least we wouldn't be in a suite at the Shangri-La. I've never been in the suites before."

  
  


Taking a deep breath, Tabby snuggled closer. She inhaled again, nose to his neck. "You smell good. You're hair's still wet. Is the chlorine going to do any damage if you don't wash it off right away?"

  
  


"No."

  
  


"Good." She nuzzled into his hair for a moment, then pulled back with a small, abrupt frown. Settling cross-legged in the middle of the king-sized bed, she regarded him intently. "Joe . . . am I going to be enough for you?"

Joe cocked his head, not understanding, and she chewed her lower lip, a blush creeping onto her face. "I mean, you're used to, what, five or six customers a night?"

  
  


"I averaged eleven point two a day for twenty-three months, seventeen days," Joe supplied.

  
  


"Eleven a day?"

  
  


"I don't need to sleep," the Mecha reminded her, smiling at the incredulity in her tone. "Or to eat. An hour's maintenance a week, barring extra repairs, was all I required."

  
  


Squirming uncomfortably, Tabby stared at the mattress like it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. "Joe, if you want to go back . . . staying with one person's a bit much to expect from . . ."

  
  


"A Gen Two lover Mecha."

  
  


"Exactly."

  
  


Turning to face her fully, Joe tucked his knees up on the edge of the bed, hands flat on the mattress. The position put his face exactly level with hers, and the strength of his concentration dragged her eyes back to his. "But Tabitha, I like you."

  
  


Tabby's eyes widened. It was the first time he'd articulated the only word that could come near describing what he felt, if it indeed was a feeling; he was built to emulate emotions, not experience them, or try to explain. His basic programming hadn't changed, he still craved human attention, his body craved human touch. Only now he craved that attention from a single person, that touch from a specific pair of hands. 

  
  


Tabby read truth in his eyes because he was incapable of anything else. Each thought slid behind his expression like a sentient thing drawn towards her warmth and the aching want in her face. She swayed closer, dazed and half-drunk on nothing more than his presence. 

  
  


Letting his simulated breath brush across her lips, Joe pulled back, forcing the girl to lean forward to capture his mouth. When she succeeded, emitting a small growl of triumph as her embrace crushed against him, an electric thrill sparked through his circuits. The broken behavioral protocols had opened suppressed channels along his neural lines, increasing the perceptiveness of his pain receptors to nearly twice their former capacity. His pleasure sensors had quadrupled their sensitivity, making his time with Tabby a series of highs he'd never known he could experience. 

  
  


And she was happy to try and please him, something he'd never even thought to ask his customers, something he never could have asked. She was more than willing to experiment, and he found that, if lacking in experience, she did, as she'd once said, have "quite a vivid imagination."

  
  


Her hands wound in his hair, stroking and playing while she explored his soft lips. Deepening the kiss, Joe lifted her until she straddled his knees, tugging at her shirt so he could reach the bare skin buried like a treasure just underneath. Nipping gently, he moved from her mouth, down her chin, to her neck, the bites becoming almost hard enough to bruise. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat to give him better access to that sensitive skin, and the Mecha took full advantage of her submissive position. 

  
  


Tabby laughed, her voice unsteady. "Damn. I just got dressed."

  
  


"So did I," Joe reminded her unsympathetically, his voice muffled against her neck. Working quickly and efficiently, he tugged her out of the confining garments, discarding them carelessly on the floor. Murmuring under her breath, Tabby began to pay him back in kind, her clumsier fingers making the process slow. After a few minutes of unsteady progress, his shirt dropped to mingle with her clothes, and when her hands stroked up and down on either side of his spine, his back arched, a soft purr rumbling in his chest.

  
  


"Turn around," he ordered, his voice thick with a passion that was programmed, yet anything but feigned.

  
  


Tabby just looked at him, not quite understanding, so Joe pushed her gently off his lap, using the distance to undo his pants. That was the one thing he missed about his costume; it was faster to get in and out of than jeans and a belt. Shucking the remainder of his clothes, he pressed a hand between Tabby's shoulders, guiding her onto her hands and knees. She complied with nothing more than a quiet whimper of partially suppressed frustration, willing to go along with his greater store of knowledge.

  
  


Wrapping an arm around her, Joe slipped a hand between her thighs to caress her from the front, making her jump and spasm against him, gasping. Murmuring meaningless, half-heard endearments, he shifted her position to the closest thing she would come to comfortable, nudging her knees apart with his. Lissome fingers increasing the pressure of their manipulations, he entered her carefully, the angle of his erection adjusted perfectly to their position and her own inside measurements. She was hot and damp, pulsing with anticipation, moaning at the welcome invasion. 

  
  


There was a single awkward moment when Tabby was unsure of what was expected, but Joe knew his business better than any Orga man could ever aspire to and gently showed her what to do, encouraging without being impatient. A fast learner, the girl arched back against him and moved when his body told her to. One pink hand wound tight in the sheets, convulsing with every stroke; bracing himself on his elbow, Joe slid his hand over hers, his own grip tightening every time her aching flesh contracted around him.

  
  


Already primed by their first encounter, it didn't take long for Tabby to start gasping in earnest. Sensations washed over her in sweat-soaked waves, each surge of pleasure coming faster and lasting longer until they crested and broke, silver fire that engulfed her entire body. Joe thought she would cry out at the peak of her culmination, but she had always been more reserved than his other customers, and only a low groan gurgled from deep in her throat as her body writhed, helplessly out of control, her face pressed into the pillow.

  
  


Joe kept moving, each thrust carefully timed, gauged to prolong the moment as much as physically possible, his body perfectly balanced on legs that didn't tire. He slowed as her shudders eased, the hand that still worked her flesh falling away. Bending over her, he brushed her damp hair out of the way and kissed the nape of her neck, trailing a line of caresses as far down her back as he could reach without having to break the connection between them. "Someday," he whispered, his tongue flicking out to lap at the indentation of her spine like a well-bred Persian savoring a saucer of cream, "someday I am going to hear you scream."

  
  


Turning far enough to roll one glazed eye towards him, Tabby didn't answer. Her pulse beat fast and hard in her neck, her breathing harsh and a little erratic. Pulling away far enough to let her stretch out on the bed, Joe continued his ministrations, his skillful fingers joining his mouth in its endeavor. She gradually relaxed under the petting until every muscle in her body was lax and her eyes were closed. He thought she was asleep until she groaned and pushed herself up on her elbows. "What time's it?" she slurred muzzily.

  
  


"Six forty-three."

  
  


"In the morning?!" she yelped, waking up a little.

  
  


"No."

  
  


Wrenching her neck around until she could face him, Tabby stared. "You mean we've only been here for three and a half hours?"

Joe grinned, a wolfish, utterly lascivious expression. "Three hours, forty-seven minutes."

  
  


"Good grief." Squirming in his grip, the girl rolled onto her back, seeming unable to move any farther than that. Joe took the opportunity to play with her breasts, massaging one in his hand and nuzzling into the other. Groaning, Tabitha pushed him away. "No more. I don't think I can stand up as it is."

  
  


"Then I have successfully served my purpose," Joe answered blithely, scooping her into his arms and walking with her into the full-sized jacuzzi, large enough to comfortably seat eight. Not that they'd used it for sitting the first time they were in it. Ignoring the girl's increasingly loud protests, Joe settled Tabby on the bench seat, arranging her so a jet of hot water pounded into her lower back. 

  
  


She gasped and arched away at first, then groaned and let her head fall back to lean on the edge. "Damn, but that feels good."

  
  


Not answering, Joe heaved himself out of the hot tub, balanced gracefully on the raised edge, pivoted like a ballet dancer, and flung himself at the water, drawing his knees to his chest in a compact cannonball. A tidal wave of chlorinated water crashed over Tabitha's head, drawing a howl that he could barely hear over the jets roaring under the water. Surfacing on the opposite side of the jacuzzi, Joe just looked at her, not exactly smiling but with a twist of Puckish mischief at one corner of his voluptuous lips.

  
  


"You . . . brat . . ." Tabby gasped, glaring at him through a curtain of wet hair.

  
  


Joe gave a small, mocking bow, making the mistake of taking his eyes off her. He didn't even see her hands before they grabbed his shoulders and shoved him under, or her foot when it kicked his legs out from under him. She tried to back away, but his Mecha reflexes were too fast; he caught her around the waist before she could lunge out of the water. "Just remember that I have to breathe!" she cried, laughing, and went limp, letting him throw her back in.

  
  


Tabitha was as happy and playful as he'd ever seen her, but she was tired and her energy flagged quickly. After a quick shower to wash off the chlorine, the pair made their way down from the fourth floor, passing by Mr. Williamson's desk on their way towards the front door.

  
  


"Enjoy yourselves?" the man asked, cordial but speaking carefully, lacking the warmth of real friendship, different enough from his normal demeanor that it raised Joe's suspicions.

  
  


His companion didn't notice anything strange. "Very much," she answered, smirking. "Thanks."

  
  


"Uh . . . Miss Cooper . . .?" the man hesitated uncomfortably. "I'm sorry . . . there's been a problem with your credit card . . . I didn't want to bother you, but . . ."

  
  


"Problem?" Shaking her head, Tabby leaned on the counter. "But that card doesn't have a limit. What kind of problem?"

  
  


"They're refusing to accept the charges. I'm sure there's just been some kind of mistake, but . . . I'm sorry, Miss Cooper, but we need to fix this."

  
  


Tabby rolled her eyes at Joe, strain showing in the line that formed between her brows. Stepping up behind her, Joe rubbed her shoulders, feeling an unaccountable tension in the muscles under his nimble hands. Leaning back gratefully into the massage, the girl pulled her wallet out of her purse. "Here, try my other card. There's less on it," she sighed.

  
  


"Thank you, Miss Cooper." Taking the card, Mr. Williamson swiped it through the small, boxy machine that was nearly as small as the card. It beeped, green numbers flashing across the screen, and the clerk smiled, relieved. "It worked." Handing the card back to Tabitha, Mr. Williamson winked. "Come back anytime. Good to see you again, Joe."

  
  


"Thank you, Mr. Williamson," Joe replied, tapping his feet in a quick two-step and ending with a flourish. "It's good to be here." And it was; Tabby had almost succeeded in overwriting the bad that had happened in the place.

  
  


"Come on, Joe, let's go home," Tabby said. Waving to Mr. Williamson, she opened the front door, waiting for Joe to join her. She looked exhausted suddenly, drawn and pale, though satisfied. With a last nod to the desk clerk, Joe held the door for her, following her through into the deepening dusk. 

  
  


Past the desk clerk's hearing, Joe tutted, holding out his arm for Tabby to take. "You should have let me call a taxi."

  
  


"Right, get a cab to go to our car. Talk about a waste of money," the girl grunted, tucking a hand in the crook of his elbow.

  
  


The words were sharp, but her tone wasn't. And she'd said "our car," casually, like it was an obvious, everyday observation. Glancing down at her not-quite-frowning face, he smiled, an expression nothing like his usual over-bright, carefully tuned flash of white teeth. 

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It was a trek of at least two miles back to the car. Tabby cursed her insistence on walking; her store of adrenaline was quickly running dry, her hands hurt, still stinging from the chorine she shouldn't have subjected them to, her head was starting to throb, and her legs were still shaky, thanks to Joe. Not that she was complaining about that last bit.

  
  


Joe's step slowed, making Tabby nearly stumble. She looked up at him, ready to be annoyed until she saw the Mecha's face. His eyes were warm, soft, faintly wondering. "What?" she asked softly.

  
  


"What do you mean?"

  
  


"I . . . nothing. You just . . . never mind," Tabby gave up, not sure how to vocalize it. Hugging his arm with both of hers, she rested her head comfortably against his shoulder.

  
  


"Hey, Joe, what d'ya know?" an artificially pleasant feminine voice asked. Tabby looked up to see a female Gen Two prostitute prowl towards them, her skin-tight catsuit screaming raw sex in a way Joe never had, even while working. He'd at least had a veneer of class and elegance, a sleek panache that advertized through grandeur instead of sleaze. This Mecha held a feminine grace and beauty that Tabby could only envy, but the differences in the tastes between sexes was painfully obvious; Joe had always reminded her of a bit player in a gangster movie. This woman walked, talked, and looked like a porno. The female sex robots almost never had the sophistication of the male, being more focused on pure sex, lacking much of the more specialized programming, such as therapeutic massage and the several varieties of dancing skills. They simply didn't need it

  
  


Men, Tabitha thought in disgust.

  
  


The Mecha was plainly on her way to her next customer, her pager flashing impatient green around her neck. "Hey, Jane, how's the gain?" Joe intoned with a cheer as artificial as Jane's sexy drawl. His hand closed over Tabby's in a painful grip. Tabby couldn't see what was bothering him until she took a closer look at the Mecha woman.

  
  


Her eyes were empty of anything but her use. She was a doll, a toy, nothing more, and was content to remain in that role. She could process information and react to stimuli, but there were no real thoughts in her gaze, no awareness of the world. Watching her go by, Tabby's chest tightened. Guilt tore at her; for a moment she almost wished she'd left Joe to Lord Johnson-Johnson. He was different from other Mechas, and knew it, but he wasn't Orga, either. He had no category to fit into, no one else like him, and now he was able to comprehend the meaning of loneliness. "Joe . . . I'm so sorry," she breathed, stricken.

  
  


Gaze flicking down to meet hers, Joe shook his head, bending to brush his lips against hers, light as butterfly wings. "We wouldn't be here," he echoed back at her gently. Tabby held his gaze for a few seconds before she nodded and continued down the worn sidewalk.

Their journey was slow, quiet until Joe stiffened wheeling to stare into a bright store window. It was a small robotics dealership, dealing mainly in parts, out of place in a neighborhood thick with liquor stores, brothels, bars, cheap motels, and teeming with citizens, those already lost beyond redemption, those desperately seeking themselves through bought sex or chemical illusion, and robots of several varieties. Tabby couldn't imagine what he was staring at that would make his face go blank and neutral like a Mecha whose batteries had run down. He stepped closer to the store front, putting out a hand to touch the glass with his fingertips, trailing across the picture of a little boy.

  
  


Tabitha thought at first that it was a missing child notice, but the bright, cheerful colors clashed with that image. Puzzled, she read the blazing words that slashed across the poster. "His love is real, he is not?" she muttered in distaste. "A child Mecha? I don't think I like that idea."

  
  


"Come away O human child/ To the waters and the wild," Joe whispered beside her. His voice sounded . . . wrong, its precisely calibrated articulation uneven. 

  
  


Glancing at him, Tabby's mouth went dry. Joe had no expression on his face, but something in his eyes was dark and undefinable, a wound that pierced infinitely deep. "With a faery hand in hand,/For the world's more full of weeping/than you can understand," she answered hoarsely.

  
  


Joe stared at her, his eyes a little too wide. "How did you . . ."

"It's a poem. Yeats, I think."

  
  


"Tell me."

  
  


Joe was tense, staring with an intensity that made his request much more important than wanting to remember something he'd once heard. Swallowing, Tabby closed her eyes, trying to recall. "I memorized it for a speech class in college . . . It was my favorite poem . . .

"Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy stand

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we've hid our faery vats.

Full of berries,

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping

than you can understand.

  
  


Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim grey sands with light,

Far off by the furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances,

Mingling hands and mingling glances,

Till the moon has taken flight . . ."

  
  


Tabby stumbled to a halt, eyes flying to her companion's face in a painful apology. "I'm sorry. After than I can only remember the last stanza.

  
  


"Away with us he's going,

The solemn-eyed:

He'll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside;

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into the breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal-chest.

For he comes, the human child,

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

From a world more full of weeping than

he can understand."

  
  


"Thank you," Joe whispered, and fell silent.

  
  


Tabby's eyes stung, wanting to tear as Joe looked at her, wordless and nearly lifeless. He turned back to the ad in the window and Tabby expected his hand to tremble as it pressed against the frigid glass, but it remained steady. "David," he whispered, seeing something besides the window in front of him.

  
  


"Joe." Touching his arm, Tabitha brought him back to her side. She waited for his attention, not moving, not even to breathe, until his lanky frame turned towards her, his sky-colored eyes, now overcast with heavy storm clouds, focused on her face. "Joe, tell me what happened." 

  
  


She didn't want to ask, didn't want to make him think about whatever was burning in his memory storage, hurting him without having to set off his pain sensors. Joe's hands balled into fists and he remained quiet, reluctant, still as only a Mecha could be. Fingers digging into his arm, winding in the material of his sleeve as tightly as it had wound in the sheets, Tabby stepped as close as she could without pressing against him. "Please, Joe. I'm your friend. Please let me try to fix it."

  
  


Life flared back into Joe's face and his slender hands relaxed. Reaching out, he pressed his palm against the side of her face. "You can't fix it," he told her. "No one can fix it, not any more."

  
  


"Please, Joe," Tabby tried again, folding her hand over his, keeping it against her cheek. "Let me help."

  
  


Gently untangling himself from her grip, Joe turned away, took several steps towards the car, then abruptly turned back. "His name was David," he said.

  
  


Tabby waited, scanning his face, but he was deep inside somewhere she couldn't go and, she was sure, she didn't want to be. "He was a child, a Mecha, an experiment." His voice thickened, laced with a bitterness she hadn't known was possible.

  
  


"A prototype?" Tabby asked hesitantly, glancing at the advertisement.

  
  


"Yes." His answer was short and sharp as a bite. Tabby took a step away, almost alarmed. She was still at times uncertain which of his reactions were sincere and which purely programmed, but now his pain was too raw, too real. Touching his shoulder, she pressed her fingers into the slight give of his manufactured epidermis, letting her hand fall to his chest, unconsciously tracing the glowing orange badge of personal ownership that shimmered just under his collar. 

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Catching her hand before it could fall further, Joe held it over the licence for a moment, then brought it to his lips to kiss the back of her fingers. Gazing into her earnest, worried face, he told her everything, from the moment he'd walked into Samantha Bevins' motel room till the moment he'd woken Tabitha in the forest. Sick horror filled her expression as his story fleshed out, the hand free of his grip pressing against her mouth. "He just wanted his mommy to love him," she choked, shaking. "Oh my . . . didn't anyone try to find him?"

  
  


"He doesn't want to be found. He wants the Blue Fairy to make him real," Joe answered.

  
  


"But . . . but . . . god, maybe he is better off, 'in the waters and the wild,' away from 'a world more full of weeping.' How could they?" Wrapping her arms around his waist, Tabby buried her face against his chest with a small moan. "You were right, you know."

  
  


"About what?"

  
  


"About Orgas. You and your kind are all that's going to be left. You're our only hope of any kind of survival into the future. We're dying."

  
  


"What do you mean? Are you ill?" Joe demanded.

  
  


Tabby gave a small, shaky laugh. "No, no, not me personally, not yet. As a race we're dying, humans. Slowly, maybe, but the evidence is there. We're jealous, we don't want anyone to take our place, not even a species we created ourselves. Some people call it playing God, but if God is the one that gave us the ability to do it . . ." She pushed herself out of his arms, leaning against the cold brick of the robotics dealership. "I don't even know what I'm saying any more. Sorry Joe, I made you tell me your problems, then I dump all over you. Something there doesn't seem fair."

  
  


"You're tired," Joe observed. "I'm built to serve humans. I've failed in my obligations to my owner; I should have taken you straight home."

  
  


Shaking her head at him, Tabby rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. "No, Joe. I don't want you to serve me. I don't want to own you. I'd pull that damn licence out if it was safe."

  
  


She was getting increasingly scattered, shivering from the cold more than any emotional trauma now. The bump on her head looked better, not as swollen, the bruises fading to the sickly yellow-green of older wounds, but there were dark hollows around her eyes, making them look sunken. Exhaustion pulled at her features, making her look fifteen years older, and even her hair was lank, its riotous color subdued. Going down on one knee in front of her, Joe cocked his head. "You said you loved me."

  
  


Tabby gulped, nodded, and tried to look away. Touching her thigh, Joe kept her resistant gaze in place. "Isn't part of that because of what I am? Because I'm Mecha instead of Orga?"

  
  


"You break your protocols so now you think you're Freud and Jung rolled into one?" the girl questioned unsteadily. It was plain she didn't want to answer, wasn't comfortable with the subject in general, but Joe was merciless in his silent expectation and she finally broke down. "In the beginning, maybe, yes, at least partly. But you're a person, as individual as anyone else. I couldn't sit here and talk like this with any other Mecha."

  
  


"No, you couldn't," Joe answered with a wry lilt to his smooth voice.

  
  


"That's not what I meant," Tabby snapped. She narrowed her eyes at him. "And you know exactly what I meant."

  
  


"I know." Joe rested his cheek against her thigh, peeking up at her with his aquamarine eyes. "If you love me, you have to let me be what I am. I'm still a Mecha, even if I'm a bit messed up inside. That licence, the thing you would so love to get rid of . . ." Slipping long fingers inside his collar, Joe traced around the glowing badge in a gesture that couldn't help but be suggestive . . . "this isn't the only thing that holds me to you and Harold. Ask Grizz and Roger."

  
  


Tabby stared down at him for several long seconds, gave a shudder, and fell into his arms. "I don't know what I'd ever do without you," she murmured. "I didn't want to leave you, either time. I didn't mean to abandon you, I'm so sorry. I wished I could just fall asleep and never wake up when you were gone. Please forgive me."

  
  


"You came looking for me, tried to save me, and got hurt because of me," Joe answered. "Don't ask that." Standing with her gathered securely in his arms, he lowered Tabby to her feet. "Come, you need rest, and food, and warmth. It's dark and too cold for you to be out dressed like that, with wet hair. Your body temperature has already dropped a sixteenth of a degree. The car's only four blocks away."

  
  


"I don't know if I'll even make it that far. I haven't slept since we got back, and . . ." Shrugging, she smiled at him sidelong. "You're good exercise. I'm going to be stiff tomorrow."

  
  


Joe's answering smile was the grin of a little boy who'd found the candy store unlocked and deserted. Arm around her shoulders in a gesture that was frankly proprietary, he held her close to share what little heat he possessed, just enough to keep him from being cold to the touch.

  
  


Dragging herself that very long four blocks to the car, Tabitha dropped bonelessly into the passenger seat as soon as Joe opened the doors. "Didn't know you could drive," she croaked.

  
  


"Part of the service," Joe commented, seeming faintly amused. "I had to drive a woman home an average of two point six times a week."

  
  


"Makes sense. I don't think I envy you that, though."

  
  


"No."

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It was past eight-thirty before they made it home; even the brilliance of sunset was faded to nothing, leaving the world a dark, washed-out gray before the darkness of night drew its rich velvet over the sky. Joe pulled onto the cracked pavement of the driveway, shut it off, and glanced at his passenger. Tabby was only half aware of her surroundings, her eyelids trying desperately to close while she fought not to let them. Stubborn as she was, it wasn't a battle she could possibly win. Joe exited, and by the time he reached Tabby's side, she'd roused herself enough to open her door, but wasn't able to rally enough energy to get to her feet.

  
  


Bending at the knees, Joe scooped her into his arms and straightened. Tabby squawked, squirming in his grip, waking enough to be indignant. "Put me down, dammit, I'm not helpless!"

  
  


"No, I don't think so." Unconcerned with her cursing, the Mecha carried her to the door, holding her with one arm while he opened it. His burden continued to struggle as he hauled her through the living room to deposit her on the couch. 

  
  


"Hmm. Stray must have followed you home. I don't know if I should let you keep her, Joe," Harold murmured, his eyes twinkling from the depths of his favorite armchair, and Roger barked from his position at Harold's side. 

  
  


"Funny, Grandpa," Tabby sniffed. Toddling over, Grizz made a delighted sound and she rubbed his ears gently, smiling while Roger licked her other hand. 

  
  


"Dinner's in the fridge. Warm it up and eat," Harold instructed.

  
  


"I'm not hungry. I'm too tired to eat," the girl protested.

  
  


Harold glared at her sternly. "Go get something to eat, then you can sleep as long as you want," he ordered.

  
  


Grumbling, Tabitha obeyed. Joe moved to follow her, but Harold put out a hand to detour him. "Sit for a minute, boy."

  
  


Sitting obediently on the edge of the couch, Joe gazed expectantly at the man. Harold glanced covertly towards the kitchen, where Tabby was busy rummaging in the refrigerator, the cozy murmur of her voice punctuated by Grizz's gravelly voice and Roger's high-pitched yips. Heaving himself out of his chair, he sat next to Joe, so close that their knees brushed. "I wanted to thank you, boy. Since you've been around, my granddaughter has been happier than she's been in years."

  
  


Joe looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen. Very faintly, her could hear her humming, and recognized the lullaby he'd played for her in the forest. "What do you mean, happier?" he asked. 

  
  


"Did she tell you what happened to her?" Harold whispered.

  
  


"When?"

  
  


Nodding to himself, the man scooted even closer, his voice so soft it barely qualified as a whisper. "She was married too young."

  
  


"She told me she went through a messy divorce."

  
  


"No." Harold shook his head emphatically. "It went beyond messy. Her ex-husband damn near killed her when she filed the papers. She spent two weeks in the hospital. He caught her home alone, and beat her, almost to death. Broken ribs, cracked cheekbone, broken collar bone, broken nose, bruised kidney, burst spleen . . . and the bastard still didn't do jail time." Harold's eyes glittered with impotent wrath, his voice shaking. Joe had to force himself not to lean away. "She loved him, Joe. That, on top of what he did to her before, the things he said . . ." Breaking off, he had to swallow hard, pressing a hand to his forehead. "I didn't think she'd ever trust anyone again. I was afraid of what would happen to her when I'm gone."

  
  


"She's quite . . . self-sufficient," Joe protested, remembering the way she'd crouched between him and Lord Johnson-Johnson's armed Hounds.

  
  


"I know that, but . . . I found a note, about six months after it happened, a suicide note. She never went through with it, and she got treatment for the depression, but I don't want to see her left alone. I'm glad you're here for her."

  
  


Joe sat perfectly still, staring at Harold from six inches away. The fury that had burned him inside, melting away his behavioral protocols, twisted itself through the wiring in his chest. Seeing his reaction, Harold inclined his head in acknowledgment, seeming pleased. 

  
  


"Chinese! Thanks, Grandpa!" Tabitha chirped from the doorway, holding a steaming bowl of vegetables and noodles. Grizz perched happily on her shoulders, his paws hanging onto her hair like reins. Faltering with her fork partway to her mouth, she lowered it slowly, frowning. "What's the matter? Joe, is something wrong with you?"

  
  


Joe shook his head with a sluggish, graceless, mechanical movement, staring at her with a silence that felt heavy across his shoulders. Harold couldn't quite meet her eyes. Gaze flicking between them, Tabby clenched her jaw. "You told him," she hissed. "Why, Grandpa? I didn't want him to know."

  
  


"He deserves to know everything if you call him friend," Teddy admonished.

  
  


Shifting in place, Tabby looked away uncomfortably. "I know that, but dammit, Simone doesn't even know."

  
  


"You're not sleeping with Simone," Harold growled.

  
  


"Grandfather!!" Tabby cried.

  
  


"What, you think I didn't know what was holding you so late? He sent a message that he found you over four hours ago."

  
  


Tabby aimed a glare in Joe's direction. He held up his hands. "Detouring was your idea, not mine," he said with a smirk.

  
  


"I'd be disappointed if you didn't use the programming. It's expensive to install, and I did a lot of research," Harold added, lips twitching as he tried not to grin. 

"How did you research it?" Joe queried.

  
  


"Well . . . you have knowledge lodged in your electronics somewhere that I've never used, or had even heard of before, but . . . let's just say her grandmother never had any complaints."

  
  


Staring at Harold for a long minute, Tabitha rolled her eyes and retreated back to the kitchen. "Men," she snorted. Plopping down at the table, she dug her fork into the aromatic chow mein, pointedly ignoring her grandfather's laughter. Finishing her dinner, she threw him one final glare, making sure to include Joe in the scalding beam, and stretched. "Goodnight. I'm going to bed," she grunted.

  
  


Making soft, faintly distressed noises, Grizz ran to her side, holding out his chubby arms. "Don't worry, Teddy, you're not the one who's being annoying," Tabby soothed, picking him up. "Of course you can come with me."

  
  


Joe's face shifted slightly; a pleading expression was one he was well practiced at, thanks to some of his former customers. It was heart-melting, calculated to make him look as helpless as a kicked puppy. It always added to their enjoyment when they heard him scream. Putting it to more pleasant use, he aimed the full force of it at Tabitha.

  
  


It had the intended effect. "What? Joe, I don't have the energy . . ."

  
  


"I know."

  
  


"Then why would you want to come to bed with me?"

  
  


Shoulders lifting in a shrug, Joe cocked his head at her. "So I can touch you, and watch you sleep." Flicking his head to one side, he started the lullaby, letting its soft chords float through the air and wrap like fuzzy earmuffs around her auditory center. She just stared at him, an occasional blink her only movement. She had almost gotten used to the idea of sex, but any unexpected hint of what could be termed simple affection from him threw her, confused her, surprised her. Even more now that she knew it wasn't some undeniable force from inside that compelled him to offer it. 

  
  


Finally she nodded, shifting Grizz to one arm and holding out her hand. Standing, Joe took it, leaning forward to touch his lips to her forehead, and led her towards her bedroom, her fingers clasping his tight.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

Tabby opened her eyes with dragging reluctance. She was in the same position she'd fallen asleep in, spooned with her back against Joe's chest, his legs tucked against hers, and Grizz cradled in her arms. She must have lain like a limp brick, not even rolling over. They only thing that now pulled her out of the clinging dark was Joe's hand on her shoulder, shaking her with increasing roughness, and his breath tickling her ear. "Tabby. Tabitha. Wake up."

  
  


She tried to ignore him, tried with every last fiber of her stubbornness, but Joe was persistent as only a Mecha could be. When Grizz began to help, tugging gently at the loose flannel arm of her pajamas, she groaned and gave up. "What?"

  
  


"Are you awake?"

  
  


Why was it that everyone everywhere asked that question when the answer was obvious? Small purple creatures living on a moon somewhere in the Andromeda galaxy must wake each other from lovely sleep, then in squeaking voices ask with that universal annoying brightness, "Are you awake?" 

  
  


"No, Joe, I'm talking in my sleep."

  
  


"Can you answer the phone in your sleep as well?"

  
  


"Huh?"

  
  


"You have a telephone call," Joe said, enunciating each syllable with the utmost care.

  
  


"Who'd call at this time of the morning?" Tabby moaned, pulling the blanket over her head.

  
  


"I have no idea who would call you at sixteen and three-quarter minutes after noon. Perhaps you should answer and find out."

  
  


There was sarcasm buried somewhere in that specifically modulated, cultured tone, she was sure of it. She refused to let the amusement she could hear even through her blanket's thick fuzz irritate her. "Noon?"

  
  


"Shall I have Harold take a message?"

  
  


"No. No, I'm up." Struggling out of the bedclothes, Tabby managed to sit up, even to stand and tug on a robe. The heavy, groggy fog around her began to lift just a little, enough to let Joe guide her into the hallway.

  
  


Detouring to the bathroom, Tabby took a moment to splash cold water on her face and swish with mouthwash. Glancing into the mirror, she paused and frowned, puzzled. Pulling back the collar of her robe, she exposed the faint shadows of bruises that ran down her neck onto her shoulder. It took a minute for memory to set in, and when it did, a burning blush crept across her skin, especially when she noticed Joe's gaze boring into hers through the mirror, slit-eyed, catlike, triumphant.

  
  


Tabitha tried to pull her robe back into place, but Joe prevented her, settling his hand over hers. Tucking his head against her neck, he flicked out his tongue. The tip touched the darkest bruise, one low on her neck that was impossible to mistake for anything but a bite. Pulse thundering, Tabby stiffened, her lower body tightening into a hard knot. Joe's hands slid over her shoulders, inside her robe, and down her arms, tugging the robe lower until it hung loose from her elbows.

  
  


It took more will than she knew she had to weasel away from him. "I still need to answer the phone."

  
  


"And are you awake to do it?" Joe murmured, anything but innocently.

  
  


She felt heat, and pressure, and dampness. And awake. Explicitly awake. "Rat," she snorted, punching at his arm. Joe caught her fist in a steely grip that she couldn't break, his eyes sparkling at her. He held her for a second or two, then relaxed his hand enough to let their fingers interlace.

  
  


"Harold wants to know if he should tell Rick to call back," Grizz chirped from the door.

  
  


"Rick?" Tabby's hand tightened around Joe's, then let go. "No, I'll be right there."

  
  


"Who is Rick?" Joe questioned, sounding so bland that Tabby had to smile.

  
  


"My old boss," she answered. "He probably found some way to get part of my last paycheck back."

  
  


Harold was in the kitchen, waiting. He gave Tabby a critical look and held out the phone. Tabby smiled sheepishly and took it. "Yeah, Rick? What do you want?"

  
  


"Still sleeping at noon? Shit, girl, you must not be too worried about getting a different job," a mildly snide voice answered back.

  
  


"Whatever. Tell me what you want and go away."

  
  


She managed to yelp "What?!" before she started to laugh.

  
  


"Only Rick," she snickered as she hung up nearly fifteen minutes later.

  
  


"He's having problems with his new Mecha?" Harold asked.

  
  


"Not really. His Mecha's acting just like he's suppose to," Tabby said with a wicked smirk.

  
  


"But the way your conversation sounded . . ." Harold started, then scrubbed at his forehead. "What did Rick do now?"

  
  


"He wanted to replace me with a Mecha."

  
  


"I know that," Harold prompted impatiently.

  
  


"He wanted a Mecha with a lot of personality."

  
  


"That makes sense. A surprising amount, considering we're talking about Rick Warner."

  
  


Tabby rubbed her face as though trying to erase her grin. "Grandfather, he bought a Mecha from Cybertronics." Glancing at Joe, she ran both hands through her hair in a motion that was both frustrated and delighted. "Rick has acquired a Generation Three lover Mecha, and now he wants to re-hire me for a few weeks to get him trained."

  
  


"Gen Three?" Joe repeated.

  
  


Tabby reached up to tickle the back of his neck. "Don't worry, honey, I can't think of any way to improve over you."

  
  


"Gen Threes can do mild S&M if the customer has the right word code, and they have more general knowledge of art, literature, and current events. Though a basic model will only have built-in ports for the downloads," Harold explained. Joe stared at him, and the man shrugged. "Just because I don't design any more doesn't mean I don't keep up. After all, they're still using the programming I wrote. Tabitha, you're not really going to work for him again, are you?"

  
  


Sitting at the table with a long sigh, Tabby held her hands out helplessly. "I'd rather not, but I don't have a choice. If I don't, Rick's going to return his Mecha. That means an automatic wipe and re-format. I can't let him do that. It's not the Mecha's fault that he got purchased by an idiot."

  
  


Grizz waddled to her side, a large cup of coffee wafting the rich aroma of concentrated caffeine from his chubby paw-like hands. "I don't like it," he said sternly, holding the fragrant mug out to her. 

"I don't either, Grizz," Tabby answered. "Thanks."

  
  


Roger wasn't as subtle. Not giving her a chance to take a sip, he planted his front paws on her knees and glared at her eye-to-eye, growling quietly and giving the definite impression of a frown, though his canine visage wasn't designed for such an expression.

  
  


"Tabitha . . . he dropped you because you turned him down one too many times, and you were too good at your job," Harold grunted.

  
  


Flushing, Tabby shook her head. "The man went for anything that could wear a skirt without crossing a social line. My turning him down had nothing to do with it. Trust me, I saw some of what he brought to the club; his offering was not something to boost a girl's ego. He just thought a Mecha would be cheaper. His monthly payments are what he paid me per week." 

  
  


"Right. You were popular, and knew how to please the customers, what talent to bring in. That damned club has doubled its profits since you started managing it," Harold growled, and Roger yipped in agreement.

  
  


"Yeah, he's a jerk," Tabitha said mildly. "But I need a job."

  
  


"I suppose you're right," Harold relented, not without a measure of disgust. "Come on, Roger, let's go for a walk. We're not going to be able to talk her out of it anyway,"

  
  


"I'll make a special supper tonight," Tabby called after them. "If he gets sidetracked, don't let him be late, Roger. I'll have to leave about six, so the food'll be done at a quarter after five."

  
  


Letting her go, the dog-shaped Mecha nodded, gave her one faintly baleful look over his shoulder, and followed Harold through the front door.

  
  


Taking a long swallow of the coffee, Tabitha leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Resting his forearms on the back, Joe leaned over her, staring until she cracked one eye open. "Yes?"

  
  


"You're not happy," Joe observed, not exactly frowning, but not smiling either. 

  
  


Tabby sat up straight and dragged her chair around to face him, tugging at him until he crouched to eye-level. Looping her arms around his neck, she studied him for a moment, then smiled ruefully. "We didn't meet that long ago," she commented. "How do you know me so well already?"

  
  


"Because he wants to," was Grizz's simple answer. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tabitha had gone all-out in preparation for her first day back (temporarily) at work, dressing in a deep metallic-green shirt blousing loose over shiny black slacks. The color made her hair look like it was made of flame, and her eyes reflected jade highlights. Her lipstick and even her eyeshadow glittered with subtle sparkles and her pale, faintly freckled cheeks were dusted with a powder that made her skin look like it was glowing. Black high-heeled boots and a scattering of silver jewelry completed the look. Joe watched from the bathroom doorway as she struggled to hook the clasp on a fine-chained necklace, finally edging behind her to fasten it.

  
  


"Thanks, Joe," Tabby said a little breathlessly, holding her hair out of the way.

  
  


Joe didn't answer, he just fluffed her hair back into order and tugged the necklace gently so it hung in place. Frowning, Tabby turned to face him, hitching one hip on the bathroom counter. "Now you're the one that's not happy. What's wrong?"

  
  


Joe lifted his shoulders in a limp shrug, this time not answering because he simply didn't know how to. 

  
  


"Well?" Tabby prompted.

  
  


"I don't want you to go," he murmured.

  
  


"Oh, this is just what I need, an insecure lover Mecha," Tabby quipped, half-laughing. Joe drew back and she reached out, taking his arm before he could flee the room. "I'm sorry, Joe, I was teasing. I didn't mean it," she said contritely. 

  
  


"I know."

  
  


Crossing her arms, the girl was plainly getting impatient. "Come on, now, you can't tell me you're jealous. You're the most self-assured, cockiest S.O.B. I've ever seen, even for a Gen Two. I'm not going to run off with Rick, or a customer, and for crying out loud I don't think I could handle another lover model."

  
  


Poised and confident, Tabitha almost seemed like another person, but her familiar eyes still lingered on him when they didn't have to, like they had in odd moments during her preparations. Smiling slowly, Joe kissed her, softly so as not to muss her lipstick. Closing her eyes, she let him caress her for a moment before shaking herself out of the enjoyment. "I've got to go. Tell you what, you can come with me if you want. I'm really not looking forward to working with an unused Gen Three lover Mecha."

  
  


Joe tried to picture it and couldn't. A weeks-old lover Mecha starving for an Orga's touch . . . it was a cruelty as bad as many at a Flesh Fair, even if it was an unintentional torture. "He won't last," he said quietly.

  
  


"I know. I'm going to tell Rick to get a licence and rent him out after hours. Not perfect, but better."

  
  


"Better," Joe agreed. "If he can learn the job this Rick wants him to do."

  
  


"You could," Tabby said, then held out her hands. "Don't worry, I would never sell you, at least not without your permission. Least of all to Rick. I've got to go. Do you want to come with?"

  
  


He was curious, a failing he'd never seen in another Mecha save David. "Yes."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Bright sunlight still fell on the sidewalk, but the neon sign above the club's doors flashed bright enough to reflect red in Tabby's eyes. The Laser's Edge wasn't the hottest nightspot in town, but it drew in a large enough clientele that it was already well filled. Tabby gave Joe a small, bright smile before flinging open the doors and striding inside, back straight, confident, her head held at a slight tilt as though disdaining the world around her.

  
  


Once inside, Tabby grabbed his hand, not for reassurance or support, but to keep from getting separated when they walked across the dance floor. It wasn't crowded, but the patrons payed little attention to anything besides the heavy music, the other people that moved in a semblance of rhythm, and the alcohol already invading their blood streams, and they were jostled a few times before managing to flounder out of the living current. 

Hesitating for a moment on the edge of the corner roped off for gambling, Tabby tugged at Joe. "I see him. Come on, he's waving us over. Oh, good. He doesn't look happy to see you."

  
  


Joe wasn't sure he wanted to meet the man gesturing towards them; small, pale, with artificially dark hair and clothes that were simply overdone, he had the oily demeanor of some of the pimps he'd seen on the street, advertising and selling human prostitutes. But Tabby dragged him in the man's direction, and he wasn't about to leave her at the mercy of this Orga.

  
  


"Tabitha! I'm so glad you agreed to do this!" the man crowed. Eyeing Joe with clear disapproval, he pursed his lips. "Though I didn't ask you to bring a friend."

  
  


"You're having me work with a sex Mecha that's never been used, Rick. I'm not doing it alone. Unless you want him to go nuts on you and lose the warranty, you'd better get a basic prostitution licence and rent him out at the end of the night," Tabby snapped.

  
  


"That's an expensive licence. Maybe I'll just give it to the ones that can't keep their hands off me," the man suggested with a grin.

  
  


"Whatever, as long as you think you won't get caught. I don't want to see him get hurt because you're stupid," Tabitha snarled. "Where is he?"

  
  


Snorting, Rick turned around and whistled. "Eddy! Come here!" he bawled. "Damn useless thing," he muttered, facing them again.

  
  


"Only because you made him that way," Tabby retorted.

  
  


Watching the thing that stalked towards their group, Joe stiffened. This creature was simulating Orga appearance only on the most basic level. No human face was as utterly beautiful as that high-cheekboned, sculptured visage, no body as fluid and graceful as this machine's wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted form. The hunger radiating from eyes so dark brown they looked black in the club's dim lighting only added to the raw sex that floated around him like a cloud of almost-scented cologne.

  
  


"Eddy?" Tabby breathed, her eyes wide.

  
  


Scowling, Joe wrapped one arm around her shoulders from behind, pulling her close so her back brushed his chest. She didn't even react, her head swiveling slowly to follow the new Mecha's movements until he stood next to Rick.

  
  


"Yes, Rick," he said, his voice a monotone.

  
  


"This is Tabitha. She's going to teach you how to do your job," Rick told the robot.

  
  


Eddy's eyes snapped to Tabitha's face, and something besides hunger rode his expression; anticipation. He took two steps towards her, and then Tabby reacted to Joe's presence, both hands coming up to grasp his arm. "Wrong. I'm going to teach you a new job," she said quickly.

  
  


Stopping in mid-step, Eddy cocked his head at her. His shoulder length golden-blonde hair rippled with the movement, his unblinking eyes not leaving her face. "I'm programmed to be a lover."

  
  


"I know. But Rick bought you to do a different job from what you're programmed to do," Tabitha explained slowly. 

  
  


His gaze flickered to Rick, then settled back on Tabitha. "I can teach you new things," he said awkwardly, confused, more confused than Joe thought the situation warranted.

  
  


Shaking her head, Tabby patted Joe's hand. "I don't need to be taught. I have more than I can handle right now." Her voice warmed, and Joe squeezed lightly in response. But he didn't stop watching Eddy.

  
  


"He's just a Gen Two," Eddy answered, barely even glancing at Joe.

  
  


"And you're just a basic model," Tabby replied. "Joe's kind of . . ." she threw a glance back, her lips twitching. " . . . super-deluxe," she finished.

  
  


"I . . . I am only a lover," Eddy repeated, his voice lower now, the rich tone a little less certain. He seemed oddly clumsy, standing there and not knowing what to do, his right arm hanging almost limp at his side.

Staring directly into Eddy's eyes, Tabby slipped away from Joe and stepped nearer the new robot. "If I don't teach you how to do it, he's going to return you."

  
  


Eddy remained quiet for a moment, then his dark eyes closed in a slow blink. "Teach me," he said.

  
  


"Good. First of all, can I call you Edward? Eddy just . . . doesn't fit."

  
  


The robot seemed a touch befuddled, but he inclined his head. "You may call me Edward."

  
  


"Thank you." Tabitha smiled warmly and held out her hands in an amicable shrug. "Well, then, we might as well get to it. What has Rick shown you? Do you know how to fill out all the order forms?"

  
  


"What are order forms?"

  
  


Closing her eyes, Tabby rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment, turned and walked back to Joe, stopping on the way just long enough to give Rick a hard, unfriendly stare. The unctuous little man shrugged and walked away, and Tabby approached Joe with a pinched look. "I think this is going to be a long night," she sighed, blinking up at Joe with a small frown. "He's not going to attack me; he knows I'm not interested. You can go do your own thing and pick me up when the club closes at two." Reaching for the nearest table, she grabbed a flyer that listed upcoming entertainment, pointing to the heading. "Here's the number in case you get in trouble."

  
  


"You're telling me to go?" Joe asked carefully, not quite sure he understood.

  
  


"I'm not telling you to do anything. You're your own person, Joe. You can stay here if you want, but I'm stuck here for eight hours. You don't need to be. Go, visit someone, see a movie, or take a walk. Enjoy yourself." Folding the paper, she pushed it into his hand, tugging the collar of his red silk shirt away from his operating licence. "Just be careful."

  
  


Joe nodded agreement, though he wasn't sure what he would do. He wasn't built to have free time. Apparently being your "own person" was more complicated than he could ever have conceived of. A little lost, he meandered towards the door. Reaching out to open it, he happened to see Edward across the bar, staring after him, as neutral as an unanimated mannequin, but his dark eyes were burning underneath the veil of programming, wistful. Chest feeling too heavy, Joe jerked the door open with more force than the task required and fled.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

He returned thirty minutes before the appointed time, having simply run out of things to do. Most of the time he'd spent walking and watching. Orgas and Mechas swarmed around him in indifferent packs, largely avoiding each other unless business brought them together. He had encountered several sex Mechas like himself; oddly, they had seemed to skirt his path, avoiding him. One even crossed the street entirely, looking at him with a gaze that could have been called hostile. He thought they had sensed something about him that was different, perhaps knew he'd broken his behavioral protocols, largely erased his obedience programming and gone rogue, but it didn't take long to notice that they were avoiding each other with the same suspicious glares. Strange. Perhaps word of him had reached the street and they were worried about more rogues in their midst.

  
  


The atmosphere was simply too disconcerting, so he'd returned to the Laser's Edge. Slipping quietly into the single empty corner table, he watched for Tabby, finally finding her behind the bar, Edward with her. The younger Mecha's eyes devoured her from head to foot, and she was laughing at something he'd just said. Leaning closer, she brushed his arm with her fingertips and said something that made Edward smile, the expression full of fascination and delight.

  
  


He was turning up the charm to full blast, treating Tabitha as though she were the most intriguing thing ever created. It was a strategy Joe had used often, and he knew exactly the kind of effect it had on women. The heaviness he'd felt before returned, and something sizzled across his neural sequencers with an uncomfortable heat.

  
  


Then Tabby spied him. The open friendliness and honest interest sparkling in her expression shifted and evolved, her smile widening and relaxing. The unfamiliar sensations evaporated from Joe's systems as she ambled to his table; the heat in her eyes was all for him. "I'll be ready to go as soon as it's last call," she said. "Ten minutes or so. Did you have fun?"

"I walked," Joe answered, not sure what else to say.

  
  


"Well, I guess it's a start." Tabby ruffled his hair, which made it fall over his eyes; he hadn't bothered to slick it back since she seemed to like it loose and soft. "Don't worry, Joe, you'll learn. I'll see you in a few minutes," she said in parting, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  
  


As promised, the moment last call was announced and the lights turned up, Tabitha appeared through the thinning crowd. "Ready to go?" she asked brightly.

  
  


"Yes."

  
  


"Excellent. Let's get the heck out of here."

  
  


Once outside, Tabby paused, her head thrown back, taking deep, measured breaths of the cool air. "I forgot how stifling it gets in there," she said, yawning.

  
  


"But you enjoyed it."

  
  


"Did I?" the girl asked.

  
  


Digging his sensitive fingers into her thick hair, Joe lifted it away from her neck, feeling her shiver when a cold breeze touched her sweat-dampened skin. "I know when you are enjoying . . . things," he murmured huskily, his voice deepening on the last word.

  
  


Tabitha swallowed, then laughed. "Sorry, honey, I just don't think I can tonight," she said with obvious regret. "My entire body hurts right now."

  
  


Joe pulled back a little, and his disappointment must have been obvious because Tabby was suddenly serious-faced. "Joe, you know this is how it's going to be if you stay with me. I am going to say no sometimes. You still have a choice, you know." She smirked, though her eyes remained guarded and dark. "Your former owners contacted me earlier, and mentioned re-purchasing your licence, and even renting you from me. There are options."

  
  


It took Joe a moment to realize what she was offering, and less time to decide against it. Once it would have appealed to him, simply having a home to return to after nights of bathing in the sweat of strangers, but now it wasn't enough. They were strangers, even his regulars; Tabitha Cooper alone had let him see deeper inside, beyond her favorite sexual positions.

  
  


"No," Joe said, frowning, his voice sharp-edged and decisive.

  
  


Tabby looked like she didn't believe him for a moment, then she threw her arms around him in a hard hug. Joe returned her embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Sometimes this is almost as good," he observed.

  
  


"Sometimes it's better," Tabby shot back.

  
  


Joe was about to say he wasn't sure about that, but Rick's sneering voice cut over them before he could open his mouth. "Well, well, you really do own the most popular whore on the street," the man snorted, laughing. "I wasn't sure when he came in with you, but I guess with a personal licence flashing the whole world, I have to believe it. A used one, Tabby, my, my, I thought you had better taste than that."

  
  


"No, I have better taste than touching you," Tabitha snarled, shoving herself out of Joe's arms so hard he stumbled. Whirling, she glared at Rick, but her posture softened when she saw Edward standing behind him, staring at Joe with an expression that could only be envy. "Get him a licence, Rick. Let him get used and he'll learn faster. And I don't mean used by you, either. You'd corrupt his files."

  
  


Flushing, Rick glared back. "He's a basic. He only does women. More than I can say for your choice of toys. What sick new things has he taught you?"

  
  


Lip lifting in disgust, Tabby grabbed Joe's arm to drag him away. "Make sure he's used by tomorrow night, Rick. He's got a million times your personality; once he's safe to let among the customers, he'll do well. Why don't you let your girlfriend take him for a test run; it'll be a pleasant change for her to have someone who can get it up."

  
  


"You little bitch. You're just pissed that I fired you."

  
  


Her grip on Joe's forearm loosened enough for her to turn back towards Rick. "No, Rick, I'm pissed because you're so damn stupid. If I didn't like Edward, I'd cut you loose and let you flounder. But I'm not going to make him suffer because I don't like you."

  
  


"Bleeding heart Mecha lover," Rick spat, jerking his thumb towards Edward. "If I return him, you going to buy him, too?"

  
  


"If I have to." Tabby smiled sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes. "But remember Rick, his warranty doesn't cover new damage or an inability to perform tasks he wasn't created for. You'd be lucky to get back half your money."

  
  


"Shit," Rick said, and spun around. "Come on, you," he ordered Edward in harsh tones. "Be back at six tomorrow," he threw over his shoulder to Tabby. "And you'd better come through, or I'll sell him to a damn flesh fair!"

  
  


Joe peered over Tabby's head, watching the pair leave. Edward was as blank as though he'd never heard the exchange, but Joe didn't want to see him at Rick's anything-but-tender mercies for any amount of time. "Will he let Edward perform the tasks he was built for?" Joe murmured.

  
  


"Yes," Tabby assured him, her voice think with rage. "He's too worried about the bottom dollar not to take my advice. But damn it, Edward doesn't deserve the kind of treatment he's going to get. A rabid dog doesn't! Besides that, something's wrong with him. He's slow, Joe, and I don't mean he's stupid. He's taking too long to process everything, and his hands aren't nearly as dextrous as they should be. He even started walking with a limp in the end. I told him to recharge his batteries when Rick got him home, but I don't suppose the little weasel will let him."

  
  


"You're upset," Joe crooned, trying to sooth away her fury, but her eyes continued to glitter angrily even when her face smoothed. 

  
  


"I can't believe I agreed to work with that bastard again," Tabby muttered, stalking away. Joe stayed where he was, waiting, and in a moment she stopped, turning to face him. "Where did you park?" she asked in a gentler tone. Joe pointed silently in the opposite direction and she sighed, trudging back. "Sorry," she said. "I told you it was going to be a long night."

  
  


"There weren't any parking spaces nearby. The car is several blocks away," Joe warned her.

  
  


She didn't seem unduly upset. "This is a popular club. Not the biggest one around, but the people like it." Pleasure and pride added a rich note to her voice, a suggestion of attitude that might have been arrogance if she were anyone else. It was gone a second later when she laughed, put a hand against his shoulder to shove him away, and darted down the street. "Race you!"

  
  


"You said you hurt all over!" Joe called, standing with his hands outspread.

  
  


"I lied!"

  
  


Joe watched her until she flashed him a teasing grin that he couldn't resist. Darting after her, his Mecha legs stronger and faster than the most talented Orga runner, he was closing the distance quickly when a small sound made him skid to a halt at the head of an alley. His eyes gleamed, piercing the dark as easily as noonday sun, but it still took him a moment to register the tableau in front of him.

  
  


It was a Mecha, a prostitute huddled in the deepest shadows, curled on a pile of rubbish. Blonde hair that was almost white would have fallen to the middle of his back if he had been standing, and eyes bluer than Joe's own peeked out from between the dirty straggles that fell over his impossibly beautiful face. It was a Sierra-class model, the first he'd seen or even heard of in Haddonfield, brand new. But something was wrong with it. 

  
  


The robot was animate, but the gaze it aimed towards Joe had no thought behind it, no recognition or acknowledgment of another presence. Its face was slack, lips parted in a soft gape. Coming closer, Joe knelt beside the newer-model lover Mecha, frowning in puzzlement. It didn't look damaged; aside from the filth coating it, the form was whole and without blemish, with no physical clue to its untimely shutdown.

  
  


Some random firing of electronic neurons made the robot reach out and grab his hand with a movement too quick for him to avoid. For a span of milliseconds it dredged up enough wit to speak, a short, scattered string of Swedish that quickly disintegrated into random syllables, then nothing. The light went out of its eyes completely and it slumped to the ground. Its fingers convulsed around Joe's, then dropped, limp and lifeless. When their flesh lost contact, a spark jumped between them, a faint arc of electricity lighting the alley. Jerking back, Joe grunted in pain, wiping his hand repeatedly on his pants. It felt like something was crawling on his skin, no, under his skin, tingling over the back of his fingers and deep inside each joint. The sensation faded, but not completely, and his fingers spasmed with an occasional firing of his pain receptors.

  
  


Some kind of short, unusual in its intensity, but something he'd experienced before. Whatever the other Mecha had done must have caused a bad connection, or aggravated an existing one; most likely the latter considering the severity of his reaction. It was nothing to cause concern, he'd ask Harold to do a diagnostic and any necessary repairs in the morning.

  
  


"Joe? What is it?" Tabitha squinted at him through the gloom, picking her way through the clutter until she was close enough to lay her hand against his back. "Oh, no," she said when she made out the still form crumpled in front of him. "What happened?"

  
  


"I don't know," Joe answered quietly.

  
  


"Do you have a light?" Tabby asked, pushing him gently aside to kneel in his place. 

  
  


Joe opened his left wrist and pulled out a small flashlight, handing it to her. Switching it on, Tabitha aimed it on the fallen robot's neck. She opened the maintenance port, and a moment later its too-perfect face split, revealing the inner workings. Its eyes were dark, the optic array dead. Biting her lip, Tabby slid a finger to one side of the memory cube, opening another small hatch high on its chest. Reaching in, she pulled out the bottle-cap sized battery, its connecting wires trailing after it like bloodless viscera. 

  
  


"Dead," she said after a moment. "Completely dead."

  
  


"That's impossible," Joe stated.

  
  


"I know. He's too new. Could be a bad battery, or a bad connection, but he'd have had warnings flashing all over the place. He wouldn't just drop on the street like this." Her frown drawing a line between her eyes, Tabby replaced the battery and leaned closer, inspecting the memory cube from inches away. Eyes snapping wide, she reached in and pulled it out, looking at it from all sides. "Joe . . . Joe, this has been completely wiped. There's nothing here, not even basic programming."

  
  


"But . . . he was speaking, just a minute ago," Joe protested. "There wasn't anything nearby that could wipe his memory that fast, or I'd be affected. And he hasn't locked, his joints are still loose."

  
  


"Well, it's wiped," Tabby snapped. "I don't know how it was done." She flinched, looking back at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. I just . . . I'm sorry, but there's nothing anyone can do about it."

  
  


"No there isn't." Standing, Joe held out his hand to help Tabby to her feet. "Thank you."

  
  


"For what?" Tabby asked, taking his hand and letting him pull her up.

  
  


"For trying. His licence is still operating, so his owners will be able to find him."

  
  


Looking back at the pitiful lump the Sierra-class made, Tabby wound an arm around Joe's waist, leaning her cheek against his shoulder, all sense of playfulness gone.

  
  


Tabby let him drive, trusting his Mecha reflexes more than her own. Which was fine, since he'd nearly been on the receiving end of Tabitha's driving skills the first time they met. She was still pensive when they reached home, slipping wordlessly inside and slumping on the couch.

  
  


The house was silent and empty. Apparently Grizz and Roger both felt the need to watch over Harold on this night; although they shared a room of their own, it was as dark and still as the rest. Joe sat next to Tabby, head cocked to one side as he regarded her doleful face. "What is it?"

  
  


"It was sad, that's all," she murmured. "It shouldn't have happened. You'd almost think a flesh fair got hold of him, but they like to see damage."

  
  


Reaching out, Joe took her hand, ignoring the occasional twitch in his shorting limb. Tabby pressed against him, then slid one leg over his knees, facing him as she straddled his lap. Touching her forehead to his, she smiled quietly, and Joe couldn't resist kissing her plump lips.

  
  


Snuggling closer, she relaxed against him. Angling his hips, Joe brought their bodies into more intimate contact, feeling her through two layers of clothes. She gasped against his mouth and he caught it, swiping his tongue across her lower lip before delving it deeper.

  
  


Tabby accepted the embrace eagerly, her body gyrating against his in a way that made him groan and lift his hips a little higher. Pulling back just far enough to look into his eyes, she let a small smile grow, an expression that gloried in this small power she had over him, and she bore down on him, gently riding him until her breathing picked up.

  
  


"You said no," Joe teased, his hands on her hips, rocking her when she began to lose the rhythm.

  
  


"I guess I lied," Tabby half-laughed unsteadily, shuddering. "Let's go to the bedroom."

  
  


"No. Right here, just like this," Joe whispered, blowing light puffs of warm air against her throat.

  
  


Groaning, Tabby pushed herself off his lap, having to brace herself against the couch to stand. "Just like this, maybe, but not right here," she murmured. "Grandpa's not that sound of a sleeper."

  
  


Joe blinked at her once, his eyelids sliding down in a slow, sensual movement, then stood and scooped her into his arms, holding her so she faced him, her legs wrapped around his waist. She struggled, giggled, and finally relented, holding tight and nibbling on the line of flesh left bare by the open button on his collar.

  
  


Carrying her to her bedroom, Joe held her over the bed, kissing her, his arms easily bearing her weight until his right hand seized, half the pair sensors in his digits firing at once. Letting out an involuntary yelp, Joe dumped his burden on the bed. The pain stopped as suddenly as it had started, but the crawling sensation was back and he wiped his hand over his pants, trying to clear his sensory circuits.

  
  


"Joe! What happened?" Tabby cried, frightened. Grabbing his hand, she examined it front and back, looking up at him when she couldn't find any injury.

  
  


"It's just a short," Joe snapped, utterly disgruntled. For the first time ever, he had managed to entirely break the mood. His own as much as hers, because the disconcerting sensations continued to possess his hand. "I'll ask Harold to look at it in the morning."

  
  


"Are you sure?" Tabby whispered, massaging his palm.

  
  


"It has happened before. Use wears delicate wires, it's to be expected," Joe reassured her. She rubbed her cheek gently against the back of his hand, frowning at him, and Joe realized she was truly worried about him. "It will be simple to fix," he said, and smiled. But the expression wasn't as bright as it should have been. Even her soft caresses hurt his hand, and he drew it out of her grip.

  
  


"All right, then," Tabby said a little doubtfully. Standing, she stretched on tiptoe to plant a tiny kiss on his nose. "I think I'll read for a while," she said, reaching for the novel on her bedside table.

No one had ever thought a book would be more entertaining than his company. And it was all his fault. Joe scowled at his hand.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Tabitha was up early the next morning; Joe had been relieved that she'd still wanted him in bed next to her, yet he was just as relieved when he could move his tingling hand without threat of waking her. The feeling had crawled past his wrist; he'd have to tell Harold as soon as he awoke.

  
  


The telephone jangled harshly, making Tabby jump since she was standing right next to it. She glared at the offensive machine, reaching for it with a glower. Harold and the other two Mechas walked in just as she picked up the receiver. Joe greeted them and was about to mention the short in his hand when Roger barked, the alarm in his voice making everyone spin to face the sound.

  
  


"Tabitha!" Harold cried, lunging, but Joe was faster, reaching her before her boneless legs crumpled, cradling her against his body to slide her gently to the ground.

  
  


"Tabitha! Tabby, what is it?" Joe hissed, fear charging through him when he got a look into her colorless face and her wounded, black eyes.

  
  


"No, no, no," she moaned over and over, burying her face against his chest. "Oh, god, no. It can't be real."

  
  


"What? Tabitha, what?" Joe asked, more forceful, gripping the side of her face to make her look up. "What happened?"

  
  


He watched tears fill her eyes, then overflow, trailing listlessly down her face. "Oh, god, Joe. I can't believe it."

  
  


"Tabitha? Who called?" Harold asked slowly, his big hand curling around her arm while Grizz patted her back and Roger licked her face.

  
  


"Simone," she choked. "Grandpa, I . . . it can't . . ." Tabby shut her eyes, shivering against Joe as if a chill had reached past her physical body and touched something deep inside. "Rick is dead, Grandpa. Rick is dead." 

  
  


"What? How?" Harold barked, drawing away. "What happened?"

  
  


Opening her eyes, Tabby turned her wet gaze to Joe's face, blinking sluggishly. "Edward killed him last night."

"But . . . that's impossible," Joe said after a moment of unbelieving shock. 

  
  


"Who's Edward?" Harold demanded, then looked at the way Tabby blinked up at Joe from the circle of his willowy arms. "He's the lover Mecha Rick bought," he whispered. "Did Simone say what happened?"

  
  


"Just that Edward went apparently nuts last night. Rick's girlfriend was there, and Edward attacked Rick completely out of nowhere."

  
  


"Did the authorities take him in to find out what went wrong?" Harold questioned in a heavy voice.

  
  


"Yes, but . . . it was weird. Simone said he collapsed afterwards. His memory banks were completely wiped, erased from the inside out."

  
  


Joe opened his mouth, closed it, and his gaze jerked down to Grizz and Roger's level. "Don't touch me, either of you," he ordered, edging carefully away from the paws that grazed dangerously close to his body.

  
  


"But you didn't . . ." Tabby started, then she gasped so hard her body shook. "Oh, god, your hand. You touched the other Mecha, didn't you?"

  
  


Joe nodded slowly, his careful expression fracturing enough to let fear peek out.

  
  


"There was another Mecha?" Harold asked. "Where?"

  
  


"It was a street prostitute, Sierra-class," Tabby whispered, both hands grasping Joe's arms hard, her nails biting through his sleeves. "He was in an alley, just laying there. I checked his memory cube, and it was completely blank."

  
  


"What happened when you touched it? What makes you think something happened?" Harold questioned Joe. 

  
  


"He grabbed my hand. He was talking, but his words just . . . faded away. He went completely limp, and when he let go, it felt like a small shock, nothing that would cause any damage." Glancing at Tabby, he found her eyes intent on his face, worried, and he couldn't offer any kind of reassurance since he was just as worried. "Later, my hand started spasming and my pain receptors kept firing. I thought it was just a bad connection, but it has gotten worse."

  
  


Harold just looked at him for a minute, then, turning to Grizz and Roger, he jerked his head towards the living room. "You two get out of here. It might be nothing, but then again . . ." 

  
  


The two smaller Mechas fled the kitchen, glancing at Joe uneasily. Standing, Harold helped Joe to his feet, then Tabby. "Let's go into my work room. I want to do a couple tests," he said. "It might just be a bad connection, and if it is, I can fix it."

  
  


"But you don't believe it," Joe murmured.

  
  


Silent for a time, Harold finally nodded slowly. "You're right. But I don't know what it could be."

  
  


The man led the way into the basement, Joe right behind him and Tabby lagging at the rear, pale and drawn, still shaken and now concerned for Joe's safety. The comfort level didn't increase for her or Joe when they entered Harold's workshop; the place was littered with wires, scattered bits of electronics, and Mecha parts, leftovers from repairs and designing brainstorms. Most of it looked like it had been scavenged from dump sites.

  
  


"It's just freaky down here, Grandpa," Tabby moaned, crowding a little closer to Joe. 

  
  


"It is," Harold sighed. "But I couldn't work in those stuffy laboratories. Besides, here I could work out at least some of my ideas without subjecting a thinking Mecha to the tests. If something didn't work, I could scrap it without worrying about it." Opening a large cabinet, he pulled out a small instrument with two electrodes attached. Joe recognized the machine from his own maintenance appointments; it measured the sensitivity of the electronic "nerves" that picked up pain, pleasure, and general tactile sensations. 

  
  


"Sit down, boy, this won't take long. I'm sure you've had it done before, so you know it might sting a little."

  
  


"A lot," Joe muttered.

  
  


Harold laughed. "Don't worry, we Orgas don't like going to doctors any more than you do. Probably less. Come on, the sooner I start, the sooner it'll be over."

  
  


Sitting obediently, Joe rolled up his right sleeve, holding out his arm. Attaching the electrodes to his palm and the back of his hand, Harold made sure each connection was solid, then activated the instrument, sending a mild shock into Joe's hand.

  
  


He didn't feel anything, and his fingers barely twitched, not even close to balling a fist as they should have. Harold frowned, carefully avoiding his gaze, and did it again. The reaction was a bit better the second time, but Joe still didn't feel pain sizzle through his arm.

  
  


"Did you feel anything?" Harold asked quietly, his voice solemn. Joe shook his head and Harold sighed. "I don't like this. I'm not sure how, but the neuronal lines are degrading, and fast. It won't be long before you won't have any use of this hand at all."

  
  


"Can you do anything about it?" Tabby asked, except her tone made it clear that she wasn't asking, she was demanding.

  
  


"I suppose I could take of the arm and replace it," Harold mused, ignoring Joe and Tabby's twin grimaces. "That might clear up the problem, but . . . here, let me see." Disconnecting the electrodes, he moved the machine to Joe's leg, removing his sock to attach it to his foot. This time when Harold pushed the button, Joe's entire limb clenched and he yipped in pain, but Harold's scowl only deepened. "I'm sorry. I don't know how, but you're entire system has been affected. I don't . . ." Leaving Joe tied, Harold moved to the compact computer system that sat in a brightly lit corner. Turning it on, he sat in the office chair and touched the screen. "I'll see if Cybertronics has any news about anything like this."

  
  


It took him a few minutes to establish a connection to find the information he sought, and when he succeeded, whatever he saw on the screen made him pale. He read for several minutes, tapping the screen now and then; Joe waited patiently and Tabby stood behind him, massaging his shoulders quietly. The Mecha was too intent on waiting for news to fully enjoy the touch, but it did mute some of the uneasiness worming its way through the wiring in his head.

  
  


It returned full force, however, when Harold shut down the computer and turned to them. "I . . . I am sorry," the man said hoarsely. "It's a virus."

  
  


Tabitha's hands stopped massaging and dug in painfully. Joe sat quietly, feeling her shiver in increasingly violent waves until she managed to squeak out a sentence. "What kind of virus?"

  
  


"A cruel one," Harold answered hoarsely. "No one has been able to determined the source, but it's spread by touch. It degrades the neural sequencers through the entire body, until it reaches the brain. Then it starts erasing the IBCs and the memory, until there's nothing left. Once the virus enters, it can't be stopped. Even trying to copy the affected Mecha's memory doesn't work, because the files corrupt whatever they're loaded into, including a new body."

  
  


"But . . . there has to be something," Tabby choked, her voice breathy.

  
  


"No. Edward isn't the first Mecha to go insane after being infected," Harold said. "Three other people have died. The Mechas with the most sophisticated responses are most susceptible to the madness. That means lover models, and any others programmed to imitate human emotion." The man dropped his eyes, staring at his knees. "A complete wipe takes anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours from the initial exposure."

  
  


Tabby whimpered softly. Joe reached up and brushed her hand, and the touch broke through some barrier; breath heaving, she wrapped her arms around him, her face pressed against the back of his neck. Harold watched her, his own face twisted and hurting, and he rubbed both hands over his face. 

  
  


Joe stared at the man, who looked more elderly in that moment than he ever had before, his shoulders slumped and tired, his broad, strong face sagging, the lines etched there deep and sharply defined. "Harold," he said slowly, "you have to wipe me. Now, before I do something to injure one of you."

  
  


"What?" Tabby cried, her voice high-pitched and frantic. 

  
  


His big hands clenching, Harold looked away, then nodded. "You're right."

  
  


"No," Tabitha said, the soft breath of a word coming out in a painful moan. "No, Grandpa. You can't."

  
  


It tore him up inside, like a rat chewing on his innermost hardware, but Joe slipped out of the tangle of her arms, holding them away when she tried to clutch at him. Facing her, he reached over the chair to touch his fingertips to her face, silencing her next outburst. "Tabitha, you can't let me stay functional, running with a virus that could make me kill you."

  
  


"But . . . we could take precautions," Tabby whispered. "We . . ."

  
  


"Did Simone say what Edward did to his owner?" Joe asked, his voluptuous lips pressing into a hard line that slashed across his face as severe as his words. "How did he kill Rick?"

  
  


"He beat him to death with his bare hands." Shaking, Tabby refused to drop her gaze. "I don't care."

  
  


"But I do." Kneeling backwards in the chair, Joe leaned over the back and gripped her shoulders with both hands, making sure she could feel the odd twitches that plagued his right limb. "Tabitha, it's going to happen anyway. I want it to be now, by my choice, not dictated by some stray electric impulse that's taken residence in my brain. Please, I don't want to hurt you."

  
  


The girl had to swallow three times before she could speak clearly. "Grandpa, please, there has to be something you can do."

  
  


"Child, Cybertronics has the best minds in the field working on it right now. Even they can't come up with a breakthrough and implement it in twelve hours. I'm sorry."

  
  


"Couldn't you shut him down and remove his memory cube until they do develop a cure?" she begged desperately. 

  
  


"That wouldn't stop the virus," Harold explained tiredly. "By the time we could get any cure they develop, all we'd be doing is purging a blank memory cube. Joe's identity and memory would still be gone. We'd have a Mecha body with no programming to run it."

  
  


"But . . ."

  
  


"Tabitha, I thought you didn't want to treat him like a Mecha," Harold said, his voice sharp.

  
  


Bristling, Tabby jerked away from Joe to glare over his shoulder at Harold. "What is that suppose to mean?"

  
  


"It means that you're taking away his right to make his own decisions. If I had a fatal illness, and could only look forward to pain, would you deny me my choices?" Harold demanded, his tone ruthless. 

  
  


Tabby's face drained, leaving it white and indistinct, as though part of her had been erased. After a long pause she wilted and shook her head. "No. No I wouldn't."

  
  


"Thank you," Joe whispered.

  
  


"Joe . . ." Tabby choked. "I don't know what I'll do without you. I l. . ."

  
  


A small smile lifted the corners of Joe's mouth and he pressed a finger to her trembling lips. "Don't say it. I already know. Will you stay with me?"

  
  


Nodding, Tabby pressed her cheek to his for a moment. When she drew back, Joe sat in the chair and gazed expectantly at Harold. The man inclined his head, moving slowly to his cabinet of tools. The instrument he pulled out was deceptively small, just a fist-sized box with a slot for a Mecha's memory cube. Once plugged in, it would emit a powerful electromagnetic pulse, strong enough to break down the shielding built into the cube to protect from everyday exposure to outside electricity and magnetic charges. The girl beside him made a small, involuntary sound, one hand curling around his, the other petting through his hair in a movement that was oddly comforting. He felt no fear, only relief; already he could sense the virus eating away at his body, slinking its way towards his brain. 

  
  


"I'm sorry, boy," Harold whispered in a rasping croak, his grey eyes shiny. "I can't tell you how much."

  
  


"I know," Joe answered.

  
  


The man gazed down at him in surprise for a moment, then touched his forelock with a snap of his wrist in a kind of salute. Then he opened the control compartment in the side of Joe's neck.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 


	3. Chapter Three

"Blue Fairy," Harold snorted, his voice a white-hot hiss.

  
  


Tabitha went very still, and Joe's fingers dropped away from hers, snatching Harold's hand and holding it away. "What did you just say?" he asked.

  
  


"Blue Fairy," Harold repeated, backing up a step and drawing his hand out of Joe's firm grip. "It's the name of the virus." Puzzlement lining his brow, he cocked his head at them. "What is it?"

  
  


"Allen Hobby," Tabitha croaked, her voice warm with anger. 

  
  


"Hobby? The one with the kid Mechas?" Harold asked. "I think the whole idea's a mistake, but what could he have to do with a virus? He's one of Cybertronic's top men."

  
  


"Do you mind if we tell him, Joe?" Tabby asked, stroking his hair.

  
  


"I think we have to," Joe answered. 

  
  


So for the second time, Joe related his adventures to a sympathetic audience. By the time he finished, Harold was slumped in a chair, shaking his head in a continuous movement. "I don't believe it. I've met Professor Hobby. He would never do something like this. Even if he was upset about David . . ."

  
  


"Grief will make you do desperate things," Tabby murmured. "That little robot was his masterpiece."

  
  


"More than that." Harold stared at the floor, his arms crossed. "His son's name was David."

  
  


Tabby gaped wordlessly. She ached all over just thinking about it, her head and heart especially. "Oh," she finally managed.

  
  


"Still, why would he lash out at other Mechas? It's like he's targeting the . . ." trailing off, Harold, looked at Joe, then covered his eyes with a tense hand.

  
  


"He blames Joe," Tabby realized, her breath sucking in sharply to sting her lungs. "But why?"

  
  


"Grief will make a man do desperate things," Harold echoed. "And irrational." Reaching forward carefully, making his intention very clear, he closed Joe's maintenance port, then walked stiff-legged to his desk and yanked open a drawer. Grabbing a set of electronic keys, he tossed them to Tabby, who snagged them out of the air, surprised. "Do you remember how to fly the 'copter?" the man asked, his jaw tight.

  
  


"Yeah, I guess so. But do we have time to get to Manhattan?" Tabby whispered, dizzy between hope and not wanting to be hurt even worse.

  
  


Harold Wavered for an instant with an unhappy glance towards her Mecha lover, but his face cleared quickly. "I think so," he finally decided. "Getting to Hobby is what's going to take time."

  
  


"Let's get going, then," Tabby said, her gray eyes cold. "I have a few questions for the good professor."

  
  


Leading them upstairs, Harold paused to explain matters to Grizz and Roger. The smaller Mechas kept a cautious amount of space between themselves and Joe, their heads bowed. "He'll be all right," Tabby insisted roughly.

  
  


"Tabitha," Joe admonished gently. "You can't lie to a Mecha, at least not one programmed to interact with humans."

  
  


Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breath, and Tabby faced him savagely. "You're going to be all right!" she yowled angrily. Joe backed off submissively, but it was plain that his agreement was purely for her benefit, to keep her calm, that his sometimes too-rational mind didn't accept it. 

  
  


It didn't comfort her that Harold seemed to agree with Joe's clinical assessment of the situation, but at least her grandfather wasn't giving up.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harold drove them to a storage facility located several miles outside Haddonfield. Joe and Tabby sat in the back; Tabby didn't cling to him or even cuddle affectionately, as would have been her usual wont. Instead she stared outside the window with a grim resolution. She did clutch his hand, but not tightly, stroking her thumb across the back with a soft, repetitive, compulsive movement.

  
  


When her grandfather stopped the car, Tabitha silently exited. Joe was left no choice but to follow the pair to a large storage shed. Stopping in front of the door, Harold opened a huge padlock, then pressed a small yellow button set in the key. The door slid open with a quiet whine, revealing a dim interior with a dirt floor, housing a single large object that squatted underneath a heavy canvas. 

  
  


Grasping the edge of the cover, Harold dragged it off and to one side, revealing the gleaming shell of an older but well-cared-for amphicopter, painted a deep, brilliant green. Walking around it, the man inspected the craft with minute attention before opening the cockpit. "It's still fully fueled," he said with a smile. "There's plenty to get you there and back."

  
  


Sidling up to peer over Harold's shoulder, Joe found the interior to be luxurious and spacious compared to the police model he and David had . . . borrowed. The entire ship had a much sleeker design, and a larger engine for more power. "It looks great, Grandpa," Tabby commented. "When did you use it last?"

  
  


"That programming workshop I went to in Rouge City three months ago," Harold said. "It was inspected just before I left; everything's in perfect condition." 

  
  


"Good." Taking the keys Harold held out to her, Tabby climbed into the cockpit, motioning for Joe to join her. 

  
  


He obediently stepped up, but at that moment his right knee gave a twinge, locking in place until the pain receptors stopped firing. Hesitating, he stared at the woman, his reluctant owner, the one so willing to put herself at risk for his sake. "Tabitha, this isn't wise," he murmured. "Reconsider."

  
  


"Get in or I'll give you back to your former owners," Tabitha replied mildly. "You're wasting time. Move."

  
  


Rarely did she give him anything like a direct order, and never with that tone, meant to brook no argument., but Joe's reluctant pause only extended. "I don't want to see you hurt."

  
  


"Losing my best friend would hurt me more than anything," the girl answered in the same curt voice. "Get in. Now."

  
  


It wasn't until Harold gave him a small push that Joe climbed up and settled himself in the fabric-covered seat beside her. Giving her grandfather a small nod, Tabby slid the key into its slot, locked it into place, and touched it to start the engine.

  
  


Backing out of the shed, Harold watched Tabby steer the machine slowly into the open, lifting a hand in farewell as the 'copter lifted off the ground.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The flight was uneventful and silent. Tabitha glared through the window, her jaw clenched so hard Joe could pick up the soft sound of her teeth grinding against each other. She was boiling inside with a fury he'd never seen before, and though it was not directed at him and in fact on his behalf, Joe stayed still and quiet, reluctant to have her baleful attention drawn to him.

  
  


"You are entering a Mecha-restricted zone," a pleasantly pitched male voice intoned from the dashboard as they drew nearer their destination.

  
  


"Stupid," Tabby hissed. "How do they ship their Mechas out, then?"

  
  


"I think it only applies to operational Mechas," Joe murmured.

  
  


The girl's answering inarticulate growl was interrupted by a muted roar. A larger amphicopter swooped out of the sky, a black military model. "Unidentified craft, you are illegally entering a Mecha-restricted zone. Turn around at once," a voice that was feminine but deeper than the 'copter's recorded messages blasted over the radio.

  
  


"Don't think so," Tabby muttered. Reaching out to open the radio channel, she schooled herself into a more pleasant attitude before replying. "Hello, yes, I'm sorry, but my Mecha is in need of repair. I'm taking him to Cybertronics to . . ."

  
  


"Turn around at once," the woman repeated in the same unfriendly monotone. "Please cease in your present course."

  
  


"I'm sorry, my licence number is . . ."

  
  


"Unidentified craft, if you do not alter your present course, we are authorized to use force," the disembodied voice interrupted.

  
  


"How rude," Tabby snorted.

  
  


"Tabitha, perhaps we should . . ."

  
  


Scowling, Tabitha turned off the radio and increased their speed, edging her 'copter higher. Joe opened his mouth to suggest making contact, but an explosion jolted them hard enough that Tabby momentarily lost control of the 'copter, making it buck wildly before she wrestled back onto a straight flight path, cursing. "They shot at us!"

  
  


"Yes," Joe said dryly. "Perhaps we should cooperate."

  
  


"Those . . ." Tabby's tirade went on for several long seconds as she wrenched at the controls, forcing the smaller, sleeker amphicopter to greater efforts, which the larger craft easily paced. 

  
  


Craned in his seat, Joe watched the twin barrels just underneath the pursuer's nose swivel and lock. "Again," he snapped. "Dive."

  
  


Tabby followed his direction, avoiding the blast, not a warning shot this time, by a narrow margin. "Dammit!"

  
  


"Again," Joe informed her tightly. Tabby rose sharply and rolled, nearly into a fourth blast. The Cybertronics building was in sight, but in the far distance. Ruined buildings leaned half-crumpled around it, rising out of the ocean like scavenged, fish-eaten bodies. The 'copter rocked from side to side as Tabitha tried to evade fire and outrun the pursuing police, but she didn't know the territory; she had to either fly over or around any obstacle, slowing her, while the others could anticipate her path and take shortcuts.

  
  


They weren't going to make it. Leaning across the dashboard, Joe flipped the switch that transferred control to the co-pilot's seat, steering with his mostly steady left hand. His reflexes were still far faster than any human could hope to be, and he pushed the little craft to its top speed, weaving through the empty husks at a dive until he pulled up abruptly, skimming just over the water. The maneuver drew a terrified squeal from his companion, but she didn't interfere, just stared forward with white-ringed eyes, her hands clenching the edge of her seat.

  
  


The police didn't expect such a move, and it took them a few seconds to follow. Their larger, bulkier ship took longer to get up any speed, giving Joe a few seconds to evaluate their surroundings, calculate their chances of making it at a straight run for the Cybertronics building (not good), and realize that they were both in "bad trouble" indeed.

  
  


Slipping through a barely-adequate opening between two buildings, Joe jerked back on the controls, aiming the craft for a buckled wall that created an entrance to a steel grid that had once supported a floor. The beams still looked sturdy and he was fairly certain that the ship would hold. Settling Harold's amphicopter on a somewhat precarious perch where three beams intersected, he cut all power.

  
  


"Joe, what are you . . . they'll use us for target practice!" Tabitha cried.

  
  


"They can't get in here, they're too big. Their scanners won't be able to pierce the walls," Joe said. "The only thing left for them to pick up is me. The metal and the water will not let them pick up a clear signal." 

  
  


"Hmph." Tabby started at a low groan that echoed around them, glancing uneasily at the water in question, only a few feet below them. "If this building goes, we're in trouble," she said.

  
  


Joe didn't answer; he glimpsed movement, a shadow passing through the weak sunlight that filtered in to them, and watched to see what their adversaries might do. It was plain they were circling the building, inspecting it from all sides, visible now as a shadow, now as an odd, disconnected reflection on the ocean's choppy surface. Then the evidence of their presence disappeared; Joe watched, but nothing appeared besides the glittering waves. Listening, he heard only Tabitha's fast breathing, the lap, lap of water just underneath the floor of the amphicopter, and the small whimpers of metal protesting the sudden weight it was expected to bear. 

  
  


The silence grew heavier and more tense as they waited to be discovered. Seconds ticked by in slow motion until Tabby stiffened. "Look," she whispered, pointing out her window.

  
  


Leaning over to peer out her window, Joe saw a dim set of lights drift by underneath the surface, the beams sweeping through the skeleton of metal beneath them. "They think we dove," Joe observed, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile entirely too self-satisfied for a Mecha.

  
  


"Good," Tabby snorted. "Power up and let's go."

  
  


"Wait . . ." Joe grunted quietly, his left hand quivering, then started again. "Wait until they get a little father away."

  
  


Tabby gave him a single frightened look. But acquiesced, turning to watch the police amphicopter's progress. The lights circled under them for a long time before they moved in a new direction. Joe tracked the ship with his unblinking, faintly disconcerting intensity until it was out of sight.

  
  


Waiting another moment or two before touching the key and bringing the amphicopter to roaring life, Joe lifted the light craft from its perilous perch. Nosing it cautiously into the narrow corridor between the buildings, he flew slowly between the rickety, decayed skyscrapers while he and Tabby waited for any sign of hostile fire.

  
  


They met no impediment, at least until Joe grimaced in pain and his arm wrenched itself sideways, pulling the 'copter into a roll. It hit the corner of one building as it emerged into the open, throwing sparks as the ship screamed protest against such abuse. The building groaned and rocked, settling in place at a sharp angle, its tall shadow falling over them in silent threat of retribution. Squeaking, Tabby cowered in her seat, hands over her head in the illogical, universal Orga assumption that such an ineffectual protection would save her.

  
  


The building didn't fall on them. Leaning over, Joe carefully flipped the switch to return power to Tabitha's side, not looking at her. Wordlessly grasping the joystick, Tabby glanced at him, but he sat eyes-forward, completely neutral over the guilty realization that he had almost damaged his owner.

  
  


"Joe? You all right?" Tabby questioned.

  
  


He nodded, still not facing her.

  
  


"Joe?"

  
  


Her voice was sharper; Joe glanced at her, into a pair of wide, terrified grey eyes. "We're almost there," she said, her voice both unsteady and hard, brooking no disobedience to her will.

  
  


Silently Joe reached out a hand despite the oddly-timed twitches that were now almost constant, patting her fingers that clutched the controls so hard they trembled. Letting go, she seized his hand instead. His fingers spasmed, making her flinch, but when he tried to pull away, she held him tighter, a sudden, fiery determination clenching her jaw. Suddenly and illogically, Joe felt safe.

  
  


An unexpected shudder caused Tabitha to gasp and drop his hand, gripping the controls. Lights flashed all over the cockpit, reflecting sickly colors off her gaunt face. "Fuel line's cracked," she said hoarsely. "It's leaking."

  
  


Opening all communication channels, Joe twisted a yellow stitch that opened a small compartment. A red button say recessed into the dashboard, protected by a thin window of plastic. Breaking it, Joe pressed the button, sending out an S.O.S.

Tabby laughed shakily. "Damn, maybe I should go out and turn a few tricks. You do seem to learn the most interesting things."

  
  


Scowling, Joe aimed a glare her way. The expression became easier with practice, but no more effective, judging by her grin. It faded quickly when something in the engine clunked and the controls began to vibrate.

  
  


"This is Cybertronics' shipping and receiving department. What is your emergency?" a calm, smooth voice crackled.

  
  


"Oh, thank you," Tabby muttered, pawing at the radio. "Hello! We've got a fuel leak! Can we land for repairs?"

  
  


"Permission granted."

  
  


"Thank you," Tabby sighed, relaxing as the welcome voice gave her directions.

  
  


"Company," Joe murmured.

  
  


Tabby followed his glance to the police 'copter hovering some distance away. Light glinted with sullen malevolence off the dripping black craft, but they didn't dare fire so close to the Cybertronics building. "Ha," she muttered in deep satisfaction, guiding her battered amphicopter onto the brightly-marked landing pad on top of the building.

  
  


A young man darted from a double set of glass doors, looking worried. "Hey, have you been in some kind of accident? You're lucky we're expecting a shipment today and someone was here. Are you all . . ." he stopped, staring as Joe clambered clumsily out of the cockpit. His left leg showed a marked tendency to drag behind him and his right hand suffered from a continuous tremble, though his pain sensors had mercifully quit firing. Tabby looked aghast; he had declined at a steep rate on the relatively short flight.

  
  


"We want to see Professor Allen Hobby. Now," Tabitha growled at the discomfited clerk.

  
  


"What? This is a research and development facility. You can't just . . ."

  
  


"Now, kid," Tabby repeated. Joe laid his steadier left hand against the back of her neck; she leaned against his touch without thinking, all her impatient attention on the boy. It seemed to be his own presence more than Tabitha's impatient presence that concerned the clerk. Certainly his guileless brown eyes remained fixated on Joe's face, which the Mecha kept expressionless and cold, offering no hint of the warm, easy smile he would usually extend.

  
  


The clerk was increasingly uncertain, but he held onto his duty as the one thing solid in the situation. "I'm sorry, I really must . . ." the boy started, but was interrupted when the doors opened. He turned in surprise, his jaw draped over his collar when he beheld the newest intruder. "But . . ."

  
  


"It's all right, Mr. Clarke, I'll see them," the older man said, his face stiff and unwelcoming. "This wasn't completely unexpected."

  
  


"But, Professor . . ."

  
  


"I said it's all right, Mr. Clarke. You may return to your office," Professor Allen Hobby ordered, glaring into Joe's suddenly blazing electric eyes.


	4. Chapter Four

Hobby led them into the bowels of the Cybertronics building, not to his office but to his apartment; he also lived in the building. It was a large, elegantly furnished suite with the stale air of rooms that were seldom used. Pictures of a little boy graced the walls here and there, a little boy whose likeness was repeated on dozens of advertisements. A desk took up most of the space in the small living room he had refurbished into another office, clearly the most frequently used space here.

  
  


"What is it you wanted?" Hobby asked, his eyes for Tabitha alone, completely ignoring Joe, who hovered silently behind her.

  
  


"I want you to fix him," Tabitha answered, surprised at her own veneer of calm.

  
  


"Why? It would be easier to replace it," the professor commented, still not acknowledging Joe's existence.

  
  


"I don't want him replaced," Tabby replied with heavy significance put on the word him. " I want to keep him just the way he is. And your damned virus is eating him from the inside out."

  
  


"My virus?" Professor Hobby repeated carefully, stiffening in place just a little.

  
  


"Yes, your virus. We're not entirely stupid, you know," Tabby snapped.

  
  


"Blue Fairy," Joe whispered suddenly, his unblinking eyes forcing his gaze into Hobby's. 

  
  


Staring at Joe, Hobby measured him from head to foot, studying his trembling hand and unsteady leg, then he shrugged. "There's nothing I can do."

  
  


"As there was nothing you could do to help David?" Joe hissed, enough venom in his tone to make Tabby turn and gaze at him in surprise. He appeared calm, placid as any Mecha, but something in his face made her uneasy and she shifted her stance so she was more directly between them.

  
  


A dull flush stole over Allen Hobby's face, hurt flaring there before he hid it behind anger. "It's simply a Mecha, easily replaced, even reproduced." Smiling a thin, sly smile, the man flicked his eyes to Joe, then back to her face. "The amphicopter you had to buy must have set you back. In fact, I would bet that it came close to draining your formerly quite large bank account. Was it worth the expense?"

  
  


"What . . ."

  
  


Ignoring Joe's obvious astonishment, holding up a hand to belay his questions, Tabby shrugged. "Yes."

  
  


"What makes it so important to you?"

  
  


"I love him."

  
  


Hobby's eyes widened, then he laughed, harshly, the sound glass-edged and bitter. "Love it? How can you love it? It's a machine. Do you love your car? Your toaster? Do you love the alarm clock that wakes you in the morning? How could you, of all people, fall in love with a robot, Miss Cooper?" As Tabby's mouth dropped open, the professor shook his head. "Yes, I know who you are. I realize that some may form inappropriate attachments to the more human-seeming machines, but you have been around them since you were a child. You should know better."

  
  


"How can you say that?" Tabby exploded, her breath leaving her lungs in the aggressive snorts of an angry stallion. "You helped to design them. You helped to make Joe an individual, as individual as you are. Not to mention smarter and more sensitive," she finished in disgust. "You helped make them as capable of forming their own reactions and making their own decisions as . . ." She paused, her eyes falling on a portrait of the man's son; the boy grinned from a beach somewhere, sunlight highlighting hair that was the exact color of the surrounding sand. "That's it. You made them too . . . no matter how you programmed David, no matter how much of yourself you put into him, you couldn't bring back your son. He could never be an exact copy." Stumbling back a step, the girl caught herself, shocked at the wave of painful sympathy she felt for the man. "I'm so sorry about your son, Professor Hobby," she said, her voice much less combative and more compassionate. "I really am. But you're making others suffer. Professor, people are dead . . ."

  
  


"That's not my doing," Hobby interrupted abruptly, his face whitening at her words. "I never hurt any people."

  
  


Tabby glanced back at Joe, who shook his head slowly. Neither of them had missed the harsh emphasis when he spoke the word people, or the undiluted hatred oozing over his features when he glared in Joe's direction. "Professor, please. Joe has never hurt anybody. He doesn't deserve . . ."

  
  


"David is gone because of him!" the professor snarled, his intellectual mask slipping completely away to reveal a man half-insane with hurt, a hurt made fresh by the loss of his son's copy. "He was my best chance at . . . at understanding . . ." His voice broke and he cleared his throat, straightening proudly, staring down on both of them. "He stole my project."

  
  


"You lost David yourself," Joe burst out, his own tones rough-edged and angry. "He was nothing to you but an experiment, made in the image of a little boy, with the brain of a child, and cast out because the Orgas around him didn't think he was quite perfect! I helped him. You only sought to exploit him, as all of my kind are exploited, used, and destroyed when it suits you!"

  
  


"What do you know of anything?" Hobby sneered. "You were made to be a whore. What do you know of children, or Orgas?"

  
  


"I know what I've seen, and what I've seen done, and what has been done to me," Joe growled. Tabby clutched at his arm with both her hands but he shook her off, limping towards Hobby. She reached out to tug at his jacket, but Joe evaded her touch easily, too easily for the condition of his body. Staring into his face, Tabitha's mouth and throat went completely dry.

  
  


Joe smiled, his usually gentle eyes blazing, hot as the center of a star, not glowing but holding a look that had the same effect, not in the least human. He stalked towards the robotics engineer, fast and graceful even with a heavy limp from the that virus degraded his neural systems, moving like something that should have been on four feet, hunting in the night, alien and utterly predatory. And every particle of that malicious, bloodthirsty attention was focused on Allen Hobby.

  
  


Gasping, Tabby lunged between them, facing Joe. There was nothing in his eyes but insane hate, no recognition, no hint of his personality. He lurched forward and even managed to lurch gracefully; the long limbs that a moment ago had been awkward, as if he'd had too many to control, were now tight and ready.

  
  


"Joe," Tabby breathed, her heart tearing, part of it lodging in the base of her throat. "Joe, please listen to me. You don't want to hurt us. Please, Joe, I know you can understand me." She kept moving as he circled, keeping herself between him and Professor Hobby, though she knew those slender hands could rip her apart with deceptively little effort.

  
  


Joe never made a sound. He kept circling, looking for an opening past her, and that gave her a small hope that buried somewhere under the damaged software and degrading logic circuits, Joe was still present. "Joe," she tried again. "I know this isn't you. Don't do this."

  
  


The robot didn't pay her any attention, even when she caught his wrist, her fingernails digging deep into his skin hard enough to scrape the metal underneath. Lunging at Hobby, he moved to sweep her out of the way, showing no reaction to what should have been a painful stimulus. Ducking under his outstretched arm, Tabby knew she had to find a way to incapacitate him before he got within reach of the cornered scientist. His pleasure receptors were possible to overload and cause a super-intense, if short-lived, flare of pain, and there was only one place within reach that had a large concentration. Grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, she pulled herself close and slammed her knee into his groin.

  
  


She was going to have a bruise, at the very least. His molded epidermis didn't provide much padding; her patella cracked against his metal body with a sharp, painful thud, but at least she'd stopped his forward impetus. Unfortunately he didn't fold and drop as a human would have, just staggered and bent at the waist. The Mecha straightened too quickly, but the delay gave Allen Hobby a chance to get out of the corner and behind his desk. "I'll replace the damn thing for you, girl!" he cried, half in fear, half in anger. "Just keep it away from me until it runs down! It'll only take a minute or two!"

  
  


Forgetting Joe's plight in the wave of white rage that exploded through her body, Tabitha whirled on the professor. "What . . . did . . . you . . . just . . . say?" she hissed, advancing. "How . . . dare . . . you . . ." Snarling and almost incoherent, the girl ducked behind the desk, backing Hobby up against the wall.

  
  


"It's just a lover Mecha!" Professor Hobby protested, holding his hands up, trying to calm her.

  
  


That was the wrong thing to say. "You son of a BITCH!" Tabby screeched, and punched him, her entire body swinging behind her fist to add momentum.

  
  


The roundhouse connected with Allen Hobby's jaw, hard enough to send his head solidly into the wall. His knees sagged for a moment, his eyes unfocused, and Tabby stood back, panting and shaking.

  
  


"Tabitha . . . don't . . ."

  
  


The quiet shock in Joe's tone brought her attention back to him. He was staring at her wide-eyed, his mouth agape. Both hands cradled the wall, holding him up. "Don't . . . hurt him," he continued, his voice barely carrying. His gaze froze on her face, surprise changing to vague bewilderment, and his legs gave out, collapsing under the weight of his body. Joe stated to slide towards the floor, helpless. 

  
  


Giving an wordless yell, Tabby vaulted to him, driving a shoulder under his arm in a vain attempt to keep him on his feet. The best she managed to do was keep him from falling any faster, kneeling to follow him down. In the end he was cushioned in her lap, head against her chest. His arms and legs were limp, unmoving. "Joe?" she whispered.

  
  


The Mecha's eyes were open, but empty. It wasn't the blank look of his neutral expression, it was the nothingness of an empty, hollow room with no personality there to add a hint of lived-in warmth. "Joe, please," Tabby choked past the suffocating lump that took up most of her chest, squeezing her lungs in a suddenly too-small space. "Please, damn you. Don't leave me." Tears filled her eyes, burning like acid, blinding her, trailing down her face in a wash of hot liquid. "Please," she begged, knowing it was useless and foolish. Burying her nose in his soft hair, she rocked him back and forth gently, as though she were comforting a child. 


	5. Chapters FiveTHE END

"How did you do that?" Allen Hobby demanded hoarsely, standing in the middle of his living room both angry and befuddled, staring down at them.

  
  


"What?" Tabby asked dully, not bothering to look up at him. Smoothing Joe's hair, she kissed his forehead, closed his eyes, and folded one of his flaccid hands between both of hers.

  
  


"How did you stop him? Once a Mecha's gone rogue, they stay that way."

  
  


She didn't want to hear the man's voice turn suddenly rough and tired. Shaking her head, Tabby tried to stop her tears from flowing, loath to show any human feeling in front of a man that had less compassion than the computer she used at home. "Don't you understand? Even angry enough to kill, to want to hurt, Joe wouldn't, not in his right mind. It was easier for him to stop himself and fight his violent impulses because he's had practice, unlike your other poor victims. Your damn virus didn't make him go rogue. He's been what you consider "rogue" ever since he was forced to abandon David."

  
  


Hobby jerked at the name, his face going pale. He stopped breathing for a moment, his wide eyes devouring Joe's still form, trailing slowly up to her face. "What responsibility does that person hold towards that Mecha in return?" he whispered hoarsely, stricken, suddenly hurting. 

  
  


Moving like he was propelled by a hidden force from behind, the professor crouched beside her and grasped Joe's husk under the arms. "Help me," he ordered harshly.

  
  


"What? Why?" Tabby demanded, hanging on to Joe with every breath of life left in her. "Leave him alone!"

  
  


"Miss Cooper, we have two hours, maybe less, before the virus shorts out his neural sequencers. If that happens, he'll be wiped completely, permanently, and even his body will be useless because any attempt to re-install any kind of programming will be contaminated. Help me get him to the lab!" 

  
  


"He's already dead, you bastard! What else do you want to do to him?"

  
  


"He's not dead, you silly . . . listen to me, the virus wipes everything, yes, but it is possible to retrieve all the information. We can cure the virus; our scientists just translated the foreign programming. Now that we have a way to purge to virus first, we can save his memory without bringing back the contamination. Now help me!"

  
  


Tabitha hunched over Joe's body, glaring up at Professor Hobby. "Why would I believe the man who created the virus? You've killed people!"

  
  


"It's not my virus," Hobby answered wearily. "It's a mutated form, changed by a parasitic program hidden within the original. My virus simply wiped a Mecha's memory. We're trying to find who attached the parasite. All we know right now is that it was sabotage, an inside job. I didn't kill anyone, I promise you." Glancing at Joe, the man flinched. "Not intentionally," he whispered. "Please. Let me help."

  
  


She didn't trust him, couldn't trust him, but after a moment's hesitation she roused herself and helped Allen Hobby lift Joe in arms that were surprisingly strong. Taking curt directions, she preceded him down several hallways and through an assortment of levels, opening doors ahead of him. At last they reached a set of large white double doors that wouldn't open at a touch. Following Hobby's commands, she dug a plastic card out of his pocket and swiped it through an electronic lock that was hidden in the crack between the door and the wall. Instead of swinging open, the door slid, and Hobby stopped her from entering. "The doors are equipped with S.M.A.R.T. recognition, and anyone besides selected personnel set off alarms all over the building. There's a room in the last hallway we passed, third door on the right. Wait there until I come for you." With that, he disappeared behind the heavy, impenetrable barrier. 

  
  


Left standing alone, Tabby felt lost, having to trust her friend at the hands of a man who hated him. 

  
  


"Him." He'd called Joe "him" instead of "it." She scratched what comfort she could out of the meager hope.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Two hours . . . three hours . . . four, five, six, ten twelve . . . Hobby had failed and didn't want to face her. There was no other explanation for the length of his silence. A fully-stocked refrigerator held no appeal, nor did the cooler filled with assorted drinks. The only thing in the vacant break room that beckoned was the coffee maker, which she used until her hands trembled. Her eyes itched and burned, after sixteen hours trying to drag themselves closed, even under the influence of a heavy caffeine overdose. Slumping in her chair, she curled her legs under her and gripped her coffee cup, determined to wait for the professor's word, whatever it might be.

  
  


But she was human, organic, and at the mercy of her mortal body; sleep curled around her, as warm and suffocating as the silken fur of a cat and as impossible to resist as her need for oxygen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Tabitha was curled animal-like on a cushioned chair in a position that looked explicitly uncomfortable, even to him. An empty paper cup was half-crumpled in her slack hand, her head pillowed on her upper arm. One leg twisted under her, the other dangled over the edge of the chair, but despite the joint-popping angle of her limbs, her breathing was deep and even.

  
  


He would have retreated, should have left her to the sleep she so plainly needed, but he had to touch her, to feel the warmth of her flesh beneath his hand, just for a moment. He reached out slowly, trailing a finger over the rounded contours of her face. He felt a distinct flash of chagrin when her eyes blinked open at the soft contact, but it fled when her gaze froze in his, her breath stilling. Both her hands reached out, digging in either side of his face, confusion, hope, and disbelief mingling. He knew he looked somewhat different, so he remained silent, letting her drink in the sight of his more human skin, his softer hair. "Is it really you, Joe?" she squeaked unsteadily. "Is it really, really you in there?"

"It's really me." Joe tugged at her hands to loosen her grip, folding them between his own and kissing her knuckles. "Shall I prove it to you?"

  
  


Making a wordless, primal sound, Tabitha threw her arms around his neck, kissing him hard. "Just hold me," she whispered, wrapping her entire body around him, so hard she had to be bruising herself in some indelicate places, hanging on with all her being to affirm his presence.

  
  


Nose buried in her soft hair, Joe cradled her, stroking her back and feeling warm tears fall onto his neck, trailing heat past the collar of his shirt.

  
  


Indeed this could be better.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Why did you do it?"

  
  


Hobby was startled by the question and knew he showed it, the ice in his glass of twenty-year-old Scotch clattering from a small involuntary jump. The girl only looked at him expectantly; she really did think of the machine reclining beside her as nothing more or less than another person and was obviously used to its . . . his . . . eccentricities.

  
  


But for Allen Hobby it was a new experience to sit and listen to a Mecha question him. Never, never was a Mecha to question its masters and creators, no matter the circumstances. Yet there sat Joe, on Professor Hobby's own leather couch, in Hobby's own office, gazing at him with large, unblinking eyes, waiting with all the patience of a Mecha, but none of the subservience. 

  
  


"I . . ." he trailed off, watched Tabitha's eyes ice over, and cleared his throat, realizing he owed an explanation. "My . . . son. He . . ."

  
  


"We know about David," Joe interrupted gently.

  
  


The professor stared for a moment at the machine that was rapidly coming to seem more like a man, if a singularly sensitive and compassionate one. "I was angry and frustrated," he continued after a pause. "Then . . . Cybertronics decided to use my technology, MY TECHNOLOGY, that it took years to develop, that I meant to help ease the pain and yearning for those that craved the innocent, loving company of their own child, in their newest lover models. I . . . it seemed like a . . . a violation. I . . . I am sorry. It's over, but I can never erase it. The virus has been nullified, the anit-virus released, and the programmer who added the parasite was identified and arrested." Noting Tabitha's sharpened interest, he inclined his head towards her, an ironic tilt to his eyebrows. "She was one of Johnson-Johnson's more rabid followers."

  
  


"And Cybertronics hired her?" Tabby snorted. "One of those murdering maniacs was actually helping to design and build Mechas?"

  
  


"She wrote software programs. She'd been here for three years, waiting for any chance at something like this," Hobby sighed. "The company tries to screen all its employees, but unfortunately, views such as hers aren't uncommon."

  
  


"No," Joe agreed softly, deeper meaning laced through his tone. While his face was disconcertingly human now, his skin almost completely lacking the plastic sheen of most artificial dermas and his hair falling loose and naturally, his gaze was all Mecha, steady and unwavering. "No, her views are shared by many, many others. Why did you help me?"

  
  


The internal lurch of a shaken reality was less this time, and the professor even managed to keep his eyes locked with Joe's cool blue ones. "Because of the way she looks at you. She loves you," he answered in a whisper. "She is . . . what I wished for David's . . . for your David's family. And because you love her."

  
  


Tabitha swallowed hard, a suspicious sheen of damp glowing in her eyes until she blinked to chase it away. Her gaze drifted to Joe with an expression that was enough to make Hobby look away, wishing he had left his little robot with Joe instead of luring him here. He looked at the drink in his hands and cleared his abruptly tight throat again, surprised at how much it still hurt. The thought of David, his second son, lost and alone under the waves . . .

Blinking, Allen Hobby realized he was thinking about a Mecha much the same way Miss Cooper did; he looked hard at the slender golem, noting the way Joe's personality looked back, studying and judging, and for the first time not finding him wanting. "You . . . helped him, the best you knew how," the professor articulated carefully, to hide the huskiness in his voice. "Thank you."

  
  


Joe's eyes widened in surprise but he nodded, his expression acknowledging both the man's evolving understanding, and his pain. It wasn't a look he was comfortable with, from Mecha or Orga, and to get away from it he turned his attention to the girl who curled at Joe's side, her arms wound possessively, nay, protectively, around him. 

  
  


"You'll have to let me know if you run into any problems," Hobby warned them both. "Much of the new programming is experimental, even what's based on my designs."

  
  


"Yeah. Generation Five," Tabitha said with a half-grin. "But how? Threes just came on the market a few weeks ago."

  
  


"We upgraded his systems with the newest technologies, some of them tested only in a lab setting," Hobby explained. "Many of his circuits were damaged and overtaxed, most likely from his . . . quest. The virus aggravated some of the damage until it was irreparable. Only his frame and central personality and memory circuits are the same." 

"You didn't try to change anything?" Tabitha asked suspiciously.

  
  


"No. I wouldn't know how to go about repairing or replacing the burnt out behavioral circuits without doing permanent damage." The professor's eyes flicked back to Joe for a moment. "Signals were rerouted, even completely erased, and I can't make out how. It will be interesting to see if any more of his line develop. Though I must say most of the circumstances leading to his . . . evolution . . . were singular and unlikely to be repeated."

  
  


"I should hope so," Tabby said, then yawned.

  
  


"You need sleep," Joe observed sharply. "And food. You need to rest and heal." He looked faintly accusatory as he lifted one of her hands, inspecting scrapes and dark, ugly bruising that mottled the pale flesh of her wrists. Glancing at Hobby's surprised, faintly horrified expression, she withdrew from the gentle grip of his slender fingers, flushing as she hid the injuries.

  
  


"She can use my bed. I have a room across the hall," Hobby offered hastily. "While she sleeps, I'd like to run a few tests, to make sure everything is in working order and all the new programming is compatible."

  
  


The girl and the Mecha exchanged glances. Tabitha shrugged. "If you trust him, I do," she told her mechanical lover. Joe's head swivelled gracefully, regarding Hobby with a thoughtful tilt. 

  
  


The professor tensed, relaxing only when Joe nodded slowly. "Yes, I do." Strange how the machine's affirmation made him feel . . . validated.

  
  


"All right, then." Stretching, the girl let Joe help her out of her seat, smiling warmly at him. "The bed sounds wonderful, Professor Hobby."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

"Could you tell me what happened to David? All of what happened? I don't know all of the story."

  
  


Joe couldn't miss the wistfulness in Allen Hobby's voice, especially now that his programming specifically defined an emotion like "wistfulness." It was strange; not feeling, he realized now that he had been feeling for some time, but understanding what he felt. Or at least as far as the humans who had designed him could understand their own emotions.

  
  


He shortened this version of events, focusing solely on the little Mecha from the moment fate had thrown them together into a hostile world, minimizing mention of his own involvement. Hobby shuddered at the description of some of their adventures, swallowed hard at others, nodding quietly, stiff-featured, at the end. "I should have realized," he murmured to himself. "I didn't know I had made him so . . . human."

  
  


"But it is what you meant to do," Joe protested quietly.

  
  


"I know. But it was suppose to be impossible." Professor Hobby looked away, then back with the sharp, predatory stare of a falcon. "Why did you help him?" he asked, consciously throwing Joe's own question back at him. 

  
  


Joe stared steadily back, trying to form an answer, but it was a question he didn't know the answer to himself. Was it because the model boy's immature, magical view of the world had helped Joe see the world clearer than he ever had before, the strange, illogical ideas flowing through his circuitry like a machete through thick, obscuring vegetation, allowing him to absorb and process more of what was around him? Was it that he simply found the boy intriguing, prickling at his, even then, un-Mecha-like curiosity? Why had he responded to the small hand thrust trustingly into his?

  
  


"He . . . needed help," Joe finally answered, slowly. "I don't know what else to tell you."

  
  


"Interesting," Hobby murmured to himself. Cocking his head, he glanced over Joe's shoulder towards the open door of his office, to the door across the hall. "Tell me, Joe, how did you meet Miss Cooper? How did that relationship develop? Forgive me for my curiosity, but it seems to me that you showed signs of surprising insight for a Mecha, even growth and evolution, before you ever encountered your David. That could possibly explain why you had the capacity to see that he needed help," Professor Hobby mused, rubbing his chin absently as he studied Joe. "Mechas are not built to be truly self-sacrificing or loyal, yet you put yourself in danger for his sake. And the capacity for self-preservation you exhibited in running from the murder scene was not part of your original programming. That kind of imagination and foresight is completely unheard of, or was before you and the David II. Your loyalty to Tabitha Cooper is just as amazing; your kind especially are programmed to see one master as much the same as another. I'm simply trying to ascertain the origins of your differences, Joe, if you don't mind."

  
  


It was the first time Allen Hobby had called him by his name, Joe noted, filing away signs of the professor's own growth. Keeping his scrutiny to himself, he began with the story of Tabitha nearly running him down with her car.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Tabitha walked in, hiding a yawn behind her hand, just as Joe was describing her showdown with Lord Johnson-Johnson's goons. Allen Hobby leaned forward in his seat, entranced by the Mecha's tale of romance and adventure, a small, admiring smile crooking one corner of his mouth. Stopping inside the door, Tabby looked from one to the other, frowning. Joe trailed off uncertainly, staring mutely at his lover.

  
  


Her tempestuous eyes settled on Allen Hobby, Tabitha growled low in her throat. "What did you tell him?" she asked Joe slowly. "How much?"

  
  


"I'm sorry," Joe articulated. "I didn't realize . . ."

  
  


"I apologize, Miss Cooper . . . Tabitha," Professor Hobby interrupted. "I asked him to tell me how the two of you met and developed such a close relationship. It's my fault, I shouldn't have tried to indulge my curiosity."

  
  


Ignoring the older man completely, Tabby crossed her arms. "Joe, you can't go telling anyone about our lives. It's . . . it's . . . private," she said, louder and harsher than she intended. Between general early-morning crabbiness, an oncoming menstral period, and the turbulent highs and lows of the previous day, she was snarling, ready to take a bite out of the world. Unfortunately for him, Joe was the only familiar part of the world in sight.

  
  


Joe sat back, stricken. "But . . ."

  
  


"But nothing, dammit. Don't ever talk behind my back."

  
  


At those words, Joe's face tightened, his own arms crossing to match hers. "I was hardly talking behind your back. Most of what I said to Professor Hobby is a matter of public record in any case. As I recall, large portions of it were in the newspapers," the Mecha bit back in clipped tones.

  
  


"I . . ."

  
  


Scowling, Professor Hobby waved his hands. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to get in the middle, but Joe has done anything but be disrespectful. In fact, Miss Cooper, he has been nothing if not admiring."

  
  


"I'm sorry," Joe said again, shocked at his own words and showing big eyes that still held a glimmer of innocence despite his function and his many adventures.

  
  


Tabitha couldn't hold the look for long. She grunted and turned abruptly, but she seemed more annoyed than angry. Moving stiffly, she walked to the large picture window that took up most of one wall in Hobby's office, leaning against the cool glass to stare out over the ocean.

  
  


Joe glanced at Professor Hobby, who raised his eyebrows and jerked his head towards the sulky girl. Feeling he would never understand the effort and complexities involved in a relationship, Joe rose to his feet and made his way across the room.

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
  


Halfway to his destination he stopped in mid-stride, an odd, riveted expression on his face. Stooping, he pressed his fingertips to the floor, his head tilted as though trying to listen to something just out of earshot. He stayed like that for several long moments, perfectly still in a thoughtful pose. Suddenly he was on his feet so fast his motion blurred, charging towards Tabby. "Get down!" he howled at Hobby, dragging a squawking Tabitha to the floor and covering her body with his.

  
  


Hobby froze, shocked; he was only halfway to the ground when the building around them began to rumble and shake.

  
  


Her terrified gasps muffled under Joe's weight, Tabitha curled herself into a compact ball as the floor under her did its best to buck her off. Amid the chaos she heard a heavy crash and a deep-throated cry of pain, then nothing but the feral growls of an enraged Earth.

  
  


It went on forever and ever. The swaying building's deep-voice protests groaned continually around them and she expected it to plummet and crush them all at any moment.

  
  


Then it stopped. There was no gradual slackening, just a sudden, total cessation of movement. The only sounds were her own heart slamming in her ears and Professor Hobby's hoarse breathing, each pained exhalation an extended moan. Joe stayed curled over her for a few more seconds before rising cautiously, keeping Tabby trapped under him while he surveyed their surroundings.

  
  


Rolling away and letting her scramble to her feet, Joe picked his way across the debris-strewn floor to where Allen Hobby lay panting, his legs trapped under a heavy set of shelves amidst broken picture frames and shattered awards. A double-fist sized crystal paperweight carved in the shape of Cybertronic's emblem lay dangerously close to his head.

  
  


"Professor?" Joe asked, his voice startling in the unnatural silence.

  
  


"I'm . . . all right," Hobby grunted, grimacing as he pushed and tugged futilely at the shelves.

  
  


It was obviously a lie; Hobby was grey-faced and sweating, breathing too hard and fast. Bending at the knees, Joe reached down to grasp the top edge of the eight-foot tall black marble structure. He straightened slowly, carrying a weight his slender arms never should have been able to bear. He didn't grimace as a human would have; there was a look of intense concentration on his face as he lifted a load that should have been impossible even for his sturdy Mecha frame.

  
  


The shelves lifted agonizingly slow, Joe's legs straightening by hesitant degrees. After only an inch or two, his left leg began to whine, softly at first but quickly rising to a shrill level. Grabbing Hobby by the shoulders, Tabby tried to slide him backwards; he cried out, gripping her still-sore wrists in a bruising grip. "My foot . . . caught," he gasped.

  
  


Joe closed his eyes, forcing the unit up another few inches. The whine in his knee became a scream, then a harsh crackle of burnt-out electronics that made Joe grunt, but he hung stubbornly onto the marble slab. Pulling at Hobby, Tabitha managed to this time free him from his entrapment.

He wasn't a light man. Letting go as soon as he was clear, Tabby leaned against the wall, panting.

  
  


That was when the after-shock hit, shorter but almost as intense as the original earthquake. Tabby was pitched to the ground, landing on her hands and knees with a small yelp. There was a sick cracking behind her, the tinkle of breaking glass, then a spear of fire through her back.

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
  


The short, cut-off shriek of pain sliced through Joe's circuitry with a physical force. "Tabitha!" he yowled, watching helpless as she clutched her abdomen around the protruding sword of glass, crouched dazed on her knees. The shelves dropped, cracking the floor tiles two inches from Hobby's injured legs while Joe leapt heedlessly past him, landing on his knees and skidding to Tabitha's side, his damaged leg splayed awkwardly.

  
  


Large, paling grey eyes gazed at him with a glazed, distracted expression. "I'm sorry, Joe," she whispered. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I had no right to be mad. I'm so sorry."

"I know," Joe murmured, brushing her soft, downy cheek with the back of his fingers. Closing her eyes, Tabby leaned into the touch, breathing a small sigh. Her body started to slump forward bonelessly. Joe caught her shoulders, staring at the shard of glass that entered her back, sliding between her ribs to erupt crimson-streaked from her abdomen, the sharp point biting into the floor.

  
  


"Oh my god," Hobby croaked. Propping himself on his forearms, he used a crawling motion to drag himself to his desk. Grabbing the hanging cord of his phone, he yanked it down to his level. Taking the receiver in a shaking hand, he dialed a four-digit number with quick, jerky strokes. "We need help!" he yelled into the mouthpiece. "People hurt!" He listened to the answer white-faced and hyperventilating. "The window's broken we can get out that way if you can get a 'copter up here," he said hoarsely. "There's a girl hurt bad."

  
  


Tabitha moaned painfully. Ignoring the rest of Hobby's conversation, Joe shifted carefully until he was supporting the girl from behind with one arm and stabilizing the glass with the other, holding her up to keep her from sliding down the spear. Warmth seeped over his fingers; her blood, hot and wet, the most intense sensation he'd ever felt, hot enough to burn . . . no, that was the glass biting into his hand, opening his epidermis wide enough that her blood seeped inside, directly onto his sensors. 

  
  


"They're coming," Hobby grated, his voice so dry it sounded like bone rubbing on bone.

  
  


Tabitha shuddered in his arms, trying to take a deep breath, and the glass shifted with the movement in defiance of his best efforts, drawing a choked cry that cut off as she convulsed against him. 

  
  


"Oh, god," the professor gasped again, crawling towards them with his legs dragging uselessly behind. Their shape was wrong, twisted, reminding Joe of the Doctor Mecha's misshapen limbs.

  
  


Joe's hands tingled and throbbed. The blood from Tabby's wound had increased from a steady trickle to a heavy flow, gushing faster with every heartbeat. "Have to slow the bleeding," Hobby said. "It'll take time for my pilot to get here, and we're twenty minutes from a hospital.

  
  


Something inside still purely Mecha automatically calculated the timetable with cold precision. Half that time would be too long. "Tabitha? I have to take it out," Joe said emotionlessly. He didn't think he'd get a response, but Tabitha shifted in his arms, moaning. He had to concentrate to make out the pain-garbled "Please, no."

  
  


"Have to," Professor Hobby grunted, tears standing in his eyes. He sat up with agonizing care and reached out to grasp Tabby by the shoulders, helping Joe support her weight. Trembling so hard it was more a vibration, Tabitha pressed her face against Hobby's neck. Locking his damaged knee so that it would no longer bend but would support him without danger of sudden collapse, Joe straddled his legs and steadied himself. Gripping the glass shard just above where it pierced her back, he paused, his eyes meeting Professor Hobby's before he drew the glass from Tabby's fragile body. He moved fast but not too fast, in case there were jagged barbs that could catch her insides and cause further injury.

  
  


Tabitha stiffened, her arms clutching weakly at the professor, but remained silent except for a slow hiss of air through her teeth. Her blood made a rhythmic pattering sound on the floor, small puddles forming and running together. Joe felt a grimace flash across his face and touched a hand to the side of his head, leaving a thick ruby smear on his temple; terror, despair, hope, anger . . . countless feelings swirled through his new circuitry in a muddled overload. How could creatures as delicate and fragile as humans exist like this?

  
  


"Joe!" Professor Hobby barked urgently. Tabitha was held limp against him, her face the color of bone. Gripping her arms, he helped Hobby lay her out gently. Blood soaked her from waist to knees, thick gore candy-coating her clothes and skin. It pumped from an ugly slash low in her gut, spurting at high pressure. Joe heard the professor swallow hard and ignored it; closing his eyes and cocking his head swiftly to the right, he accessed his extended memory files, those he didn't need on an everyday basis. His new Gen 5 body, he found, was equipped with more advances than a radically improved chameleon dermis; his knowledge of human anatomy, formerly restricted to basic first aid, was now extensive. Opening his eyes, he glanced at Hobby with a swift nod before focusing all his attention on the few square inches of wounded flesh. Sliding his hands inside, he put his ultra-sensitive tactile perception to a use he had never even visualized, using his hands more intimately than he'd known was possible. Moving cautiously in the precious life before him, he pinched here and clamped there, instantly slowing the river of blood to a lazy stream.

  
  


"They made it," Professor Hobby creaked through a dry throat, relief making him sound weak. Only then did Joe notice the roar of an engine, looking up at the crash of breaking glass to see two men hanging onto the open doors of a cargo 'copter, kicking out what remained of the deadly windowpane. Reaching back, they grasped two stretchers, tossing them through the new-made entrance, then climbed carefully through themselves.

  
  


The men froze just inside, their eyes widening at the gory panorama spread before them, the younger of the two flushing green. Their badges said they were low-level factory workers, not technicians but laborers who loaded and unloaded products and supplies. Hobby grunted irritably, prompting them to move; grabbing a stretcher, they dropped it beside the professor, one grasping him under the arms the other searching for a way to lift his legs without causing further pain.

  
  


"Slide it under him," Joe told them.

  
  


The men just stared at him blankly, unmoving but for an occasional blink. Joe waited for several seconds, his brows slowly drawing down into a scowl. "Now!" he finally barked.

  
  


The pair flinched in unison, then scrambled to obey his curt order, both gaining several slashes from the sharp, scattered glass. Professor Hobby groaned several times during the proceedings, but was finally loaded onto the stretcher, strapped in across his chest and legs. Hefting the stretcher, the men carried Hobby to the window, glancing down at the long drop to the water before the larger of the pair set his end on the window sill, climbed across to the 'copter, and leaned through the door, balancing dangerously as he lifted the professor, slowly drawing him into the hovering amphicopter.

  
  


Buffeting wind caught the 'copter once, bucking the ship with the professor halfway inside, but the tight-faced pilot brought it under control before the ersatz paramedic lost his grip on the stretcher. Once the injured man was secured in place by straps and buckles that were meant to keep inanimate cargo from shifting, the men scrambled back over the debris-strewn floor to Tabby's side.

  
  


"I can't let go. You'll have to lift us both," Joe informed them.

  
  


"You can walk beside the stretcher," the slighter man snapped, his face still a ghastly green-white.

  
  


"I can't walk across to the bloody 'copter. Flying is not one of my basic capabilities," Joe retorted harshly.

  
  


The men drew back, eyeing him warily. Then the younger of the pair glanced at his partner and nodded. The set the stretcher beside Tabitha, careful not to look at the ichor-streaked rip into which Joe's hands disappeared. Moving slowly, trying not to jar her, they lifted her onto the stretcher, then let Joe crouch over her, straddling her hips, his damaged leg jutting over the side. The men straightened, grunting under the double load. The stretcher shifted suddenly, jostling Joe, who glared wordlessly until movement underneath him drew his attention.

  
  


Tabitha's eyes fluttered and opened. They were glazed with pain, dim, but lucid. She blinked once, in slow motion, her gaze trying to flick down across her torn body. Joe leaned forward, blocking her view. "You're going to be fine," he assured her softly.

  
  


"You said . . . couldn't lie," the girl gasped, the effort and obvious struggle taking all her oxygen.

  
  


"Just lie still," Joe murmured as the workers maneuvered them into the 'copter.

  
  


"Where . . . 'd I go?" Tabby snorted, humor trying to make its way onto her papery face.

  
  


"Hush," Joe whispered. A series of bumps, made as gentle as possible, announced their arrival on the amphicopter. Tabby tensed, her eyes squeezed shut, but she barely made a sound. A choked sob made Joe look up; the younger man, boy really, he was barely legal for Joe's brand of services, had tears running down his face. Hobby was watching them from across the cargo space, solemn and grim.

  
  


"Tabitha, listen to me . . ." Joe started, but her eyes rolled back and closed, her pain-stiff muscles going slack beneath him.

  
  


"How long?" Hobby asked. "And blow the flight laws."

  
  


"We'll be at the hospital in eight minutes. I radioed ahead; they're expecting us," the pilot informed them tersely.

  
  


Eight minutes, and every second was more of her life trickling away from between his fingers.

  
  


They landed without incident, either because the hospital in turn radioed the authorities or because the aggressive police 'copter was busy with the earthquake's aftermath. White-suited paramedics and grey-clad Mecha orderlies swarmed over the 'copter. Professor Hobby was unstrapped and hauled away in seconds, then the overseeing doctor turned to Tabitha.

  
  


"The hell?" he exclaimed, staring blankly. Leaning over Joe, he inspected the wounds where the automaton's agile digits disappeared into the young woman's flesh. Head snapping with his quick movements, he called out to the waiting crew for a surgical tray. It was produced with Mecha efficiency. The doctor hastily wiped his hands with gauze soaked in sterilizing solution, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, and gently prodded Joe to one side. In moments, a set of surgical clamps replaced Joe's fingers, freeing him. 

  
  


After the warmth of Tabby's body, the cool air against his blood-wet skin was enough to send a tingle through his pain receptors. He ignored it, following the doctor silently as the man directed Tabby to be moved.

He was stopped halfway to the surgical floor by a less-humanoid orderly Mecha, informed with cold, inflectionless tones that only family members were allowed any further. Joe stopped in the middle of the corridor, staring after the gurney that bore Tabitha towards the unknown. He stood there stone still until he was ordered sharply by a human nurse to get out of the way.

  
  


He stopped asking any familiar faces for information after the twenty-seventh time he was ignored, shuffling stiff-legged into the nearest waiting room, where he inserted himself near a window and shut down all but his most basic functions, gazing at the bright twinkle of sunbeams off the distant ocean.

  
  


David was under there somewhere, searching for the blue fairy. Maybe Tabby could join him and help in the search . . .gray nothing.

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
  


"Joe!"

  
  


He was being shaken gently, and a fluffy pair of arms was locked around his neck. Harold's worried eyes looked down on him, one big hand gripping his arm. Grizz had settled into his lap and was hugging him tightly, just as though he were an Orga in need of comfort. A third presence was pushing against his thigh. Glancing down, Joe found Roger's head laying in his lap, the dog's brown eyes gleaming warm from the midst of his artificial-looking fur.

  
  


"Harold," Joe greeted the man, his voice ringing hollow in his own auditory circuits.

  
  


"Professor Hobby had one of his men call me," Harold explained. His quiet face was tormented and pale; he looked ill and older than his not inconsiderable years. "The doctors said if it hadn't been for you, she would have died before she got here."

  
  


"They won't give me any information," Joe told the visitors tonelessly.

  
  


Grizz's arms held tighter. Harold and Roger exchanged glances, avoiding his eyes. "She's not doing well," Harold murmured shakily, staring at the ground. "She's still in surgery. They couldn't save most of her reproductive system. Right now they're trying to repair her intestines."

  
  


"She's very ill then?" Joe questioned, still hollow, more so than ever he was before encountering Tabitha.

  
  


"I'm afraid so, yes."

  
  


Roger whined quietly. Grizz swivelled his round head to stare at Harold. "Where's Tabby? I want to see Tabby," the bear demanded, his ears twitching.

  
  


"As soon as she's stable," Harold told the little animal gently.

  
  


"No Mechas are permitted beyond the waiting areas save those owned by the hospital," Joe said.

  
  


"We'll see," Harold grunted. His tired eyes examined Joe suddenly, softening with sympathy. "Come on, boy. Let's get you cleaned up," he ordered, catching Joe's arm and pulling him to his feet.

  
  


Joe looked down at himself. Dried blood flaked from his hands and smeared his usually immaculate clothes. Tabitha's blood, so much of it. He was careful not to touch Grizz lest the rust-colored coating rub off on his fur. Ignoring his protests, Harold took him by the hand and started to lead him to the nearest bathroom. Joe hobbled a few steps after him, and the old man immediately noticed. "What did you do?"

  
  


"I'm not sure of the extent of the damage. It happened during the earthquake," Joe answered.

  
  


Harold wavered from annoyance to relief at the prospect of something to do. "Well, we'll check it out. I don't have any of my equipment here; maybe their maintenance department will let me borrow some of their tools. But let's get the mess off you first."

  
  


Harold scrubbed him from top to bottom, mercilessly eliminating every fleck of blood, going so far as to making him undress so he could scrub at his stained clothes in the sink. It didn't completely eradicate the stains, but the spots at least faded to a pale pink that wasn't quite as noticeable. Before he let Joe don his jeans, Harold knelt in front of him, gently prodding around his damaged knee. "Can't tell anything until I get in there," he grunted. "All right, get dressed, then let me see that hand."

  
  


Wrestling the damp-spotted pants over his rigid knee, Joe buckled his belt and held out his cut hand for Harold to examine. "Hold still," the man ordered, and gently peeled the epidermis away from the underworkings. Blood, gummy and congealed, streaked the bright metal, making Harold flinch. "This will have to be cleaned out, too, before it starts affecting your joints," he muttered thickly, swallowing hard. "Dear god . . ."

  
  


The last was a whisper, not meant for him to hear, but Joe knew the source of the man's disquiet. The amount of blood required for him to get it ground that deep into the inner mechanisms was staggering, and a good clue as to how badly his granddaughter had been injured. But the old Orga rallied quickly, straightening. "All right, let's look for a maintenance worker," he said. "I didn't bring my tools; maybe I can borrow some."

  
  


Joe followed Harold down the corridor, not caring where he was taken. Roger stayed close to Harold's side, but Grizz waddled beside Joe, and, reaching as high as he could, his stubby fingers just managed to catch Joe's hand.

  
  


In the hours that Joe had sat unaware by the window, Tabitha's story seemed to have spread over the entire hospital. The maintenance staff, human and Mecha alike, were happy to let Harold use their equipment, even offering to repair Joe themselves. Harold refused, thanking them but telling them he had to do something besides sit and wait.

  
  


Cleaning his hand was relatively simple and quick, as was sealing the torn dermis. His knee, on the other hand, was a far more complicated procedure. "I suppose you won't let me shut you down for this?" Harold asked without hope, and Joe silently shook his head. Harold sighed impatiently but propped Joe's leg on a chair and peeled the silicone epidermis completely away from the joint.

  
  


A broken pin and ruined hydraulics were the main problems, taking more than an hour to repair. Harold had to delve deeper into Joe's leg than he'd expected and in the end he cut away more than a third of his carefully molded skin, laying his metal skeleton bare from not quite mid-thigh to six inches below his knee. The process drew an audience, and even a pair of assistants in the form of one of the older Mechas whose clumsy-looking bronze hands were amazingly nimble, and a young man with shaggy hair even darker than Joe's own. 

  
  


The robot explained the more intricate procedures of the repair in a slightly crackled but somehow gentle voice. "What make are you?" Harold asked as he held two newly re-shaped pieces of metal together while the maintenance 'bot used its right forefinger to tighten the tiny screw that held them in place.

  
  


"I am a TX-7G," the robot answered placidly.

  
  


"That was one of Cybertronic's first mechanic models," Harold commented, awed. "You must be, what, nearly eighty years old?"

  
  


"It has been seventy-seven years, eleven months, sixteen days, ten hours, fifty-three minutes, fourteen seconds since I was first activated," TX-7G answered.

  
  


Harold gaped, then chuckled. Joe, too, noted the way TX-7G paused, plainly waiting for a reaction, though its molded metal features, only vaguely humanoid, was incapable of showing expression.

  
  


The young maintenance worker laughed. "Tix likes to mess with new people," he said cheerfully. "If I asked for a measurement, he'd give it to me in millimeters. Decameters once."

  
  


Harold grinned in return, until the main doors onto the surgical floor burst open. A pair of nurses darted through, followed by the ER doctor who had first taken care of Tabitha. He was grave-faced and pensive, glancing furtively in their direction once before disappearing through the double doors that led to the operating rooms, moving at a run.

  
  


With a sharp ping, Harold's suddenly shaking hands snapped the screw he was tightening. TX-7G gently took the pieces from his nerveless fingers, looked around quickly with black, empty eyes that were nothing more than blank lenses, and rose creaking from his knees. He lumbered to the nurse's station, leaned over the counter, and picked something up. Returning, he inclined his squarish, oblong head to his mournful-eyed partner and held out a paper clip. Straightening the slip of metal, he bent over Joe's leg and slotted it through the hole left by the broken screw. He wrapped it around the deceptively thin, delicate struts it connected, surveyed his own work critically, and straightened.

  
  


"Very good," Harold said unsteadily. "Interesting. Very inventive."

  
  


"You must make do with what you can when you work within a hospital budget," the robot answered.

  
  


"Tix has taught me a lot," the young man said, glancing towards the doors through which the doctor had fled.

  
  


"I'm sure he has," Harold answered woodenly, holding out one hand. "I think I can finish from here. Thank you . . ."

  
  


"Brett Keller. No problem," the worker said, taking the proffered hand briefly. "I'm off now anyway. Listen," he continued, ducking his head. "I . . . I hope she's okay." Glancing once at Joe, he fled. "Come on, Tix."

  
  


"Thank you . . . Tix, is it?" Harold offered, holding out his hand to the elderly robot.

  
  


Tix hesitated, then took Harold's hand gingerly. "You're welcome," he said, and left.

  
  


"That robot needs repairs himself," Joe commented, his voice ringing and distant.

  
  


"Yes," Harold agreed in the same kind of tone, then bent over Joe's leg to seal the silicone covering back in place, his movements as mechanical as the most primitive, non-intelligent robot. He was just finishing when Joe saw the surgeon and the ER doctor exit the surgical ward, walking towards the small waiting room. Joe gripped Harold's shoulder and the man looked up, his face closing tight at the sight of the two somber doctors. He stopped with a few inches of the last seam remaining, laid aside his borrowed tools, and stood, facing the doctors.

  
  


"Mr. Cooper?" the surgeon greeted him questioningly. When Harold nodded, the doctor inclined his head. "I'm Doctor Spencer," the mid-aged man said. "I'm sorry. We've done everything we can, but your granddaughter lost a lot of blood, and her intestines were perforated. I managed to repair them, but infection has already set in. We're treating her with antibiotics and steroids, but . . ." he trailed off, running a hand through his sandy-colored hair. 

  
  


The ER doctor shook his head. "I'm sorry, at this point we just don't know anything," he finished for his colleague. "But she is very, very ill. The next twenty-four hours will be critical. She's in the ICU now. We . . . we don't expect her to respond."

  
  


Harold staggered; Joe reached out to steady him, and the old man tumbled into his arms, a fine tremble running up and down his limbs. He held weakly on to Joe, who could only keep his arms around him to keep him on his feet.

  
  


A small tug on the hem of his shirt made him look down into two pairs of dark round eyes. "I want to see Tabby," Grizz said impatiently. "I want to see her now."

  
  


"I know, little ones," he answered. "But we have to wait."

  
  


Grizz growled, and so did Roger.

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
  


Hours later, Joe had gone unasked to find a cup of coffee for Harold. When he returned, carrying two plastic cups full of a substance that resembled nothing so much as old tar, Harold was standing, waiting for him with red-rimmed eyes. Taking the cups, he set them gently on the single small table in the waiting room. "We're going to see her," he said quietly. "We need to go now."

  
  


"Need to?"

  
  


"We need to say goodbye," Harold said more gently still.

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Two nurses tried to stop Harold from taking three unauthorized Mechas into the Intensive Care Unit, but he told them both that the Mechas were family and if they didn't like it, they could call the police and have them arrested. Except that the old man didn't put it nearly so politely.

  
  


Tabitha's room was large, but instruments took up most of the space. Machines around her kept track of her pulse, breathing, oxygen levels, blood pressure, and temperature, running a constant line of information to a monitor at the nurse's station. Tabby lay in the center of the hospital bed, naked but for a single thin temperature-controlled blanket under which ran what seemed to be dozens of tubes and wires. She breathed in hard, hitching breaths and the heart monitor beeped erratically, the pulses weak. Her face seemed to have sunk into the skull beneath it, her flesh taking on the color of the bone but for deep shadows around her eyes that were a dark purplish black.

  
  


"Tabby," Grizz murmured, pushing himself out of Harold's arms and toddling to the bed. Climbing up the side, he held onto the railing and stretched out until he could pat her face with one fat, furry paw. Joe moved more slowly, carefully making his way to the other side of the bed, noting every machine that was connected to her. Two thick wires led to the heart monitor, an oxygen tube bisected her face just under her nose, a larger tube dipped from under the blanket, draining dark fluid into a whirring, boxy machine, another wire measured the oxygen content of her blood, a clear IV tube dripped fluid into the vein in her right hand, and a cuff around her upper arm kept watch on her blood pressure. She looked like a damaged Mecha with its electronics spilled like mechanical viscera.

  
  


Joe stared down at her for a long time. He glanced up once to find Roger and Harold across from him, the Mecha dog nosing Tabby's arm, Harold smoothing her hair. "They said a few hours," Harold told him hoarsely. "They said she's just too weak. She's not responding to the drugs at all."

  
  


Grizz, who was sitting beside her pillow, still petting her face, growled quietly. Joe reached out and carefully slipped his hand into hers, curling his fingers gently around her warm ones, feeling the fever that continued to mount despite the cold blanket covering her. His unblinking electric eyes remained trained on Tabitha's still face as he tilted his head, freeing the gentle strains of a delicate but cheerful lullaby.

  
  


Tabitha's pulse sped for a moment, the erratic bleeps from the monitor coming fast but steady. They slowed after a double dozen or so beats, but her fingers twitched against his, not clenching tight but exerting a noticeable increase in pressure. But there was no other sign of life; her face didn't move and her eyes didn't flicker.

  
  


The door opened slowly, a large, wide-featured nurse edging in, her strong face set in lines of clear annoyance. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to ask you . . ." She stopped mid-sentence when none of them bothered to do more than glance in her direction. Coming further into the room, she studied each of them, her gaze lingering most particularly on Joe. She obviously recognized his type, her eyes widening just a little as she looked from him, to Harold, to Tabitha's helpless shape huddled under the blanket. Ignoring her, Joe leaned down, brushing his free hand against Tabitha's cheek. "Tabby," he whispered in his best throatily seductive voice. "Tabitha."

  
  


Again there was a small response, but this time the heart monitor fell back not into fragile, unsynchronized beats but into a rhythm that was still slow and weak, but steady. The nurse froze for a moment, then burst into action, pushing Roger out of the way to lean over Tabitha's bed, curling her fingers around one white wrist to time the pulse for herself. Her eyes bright and her face coloring with a delicate flush, she looked up at each monitor in turn; the heart monitor looked far closer to normal and Tabitha's blood pressure had risen by a margin or two, though nothing else had changed. "Keep talking to her," the nurse ordered, sounding tense and excited.

  
  


Joe gazed at her; Harold nodded encouragement over her broad shoulders, Roger whined, and even Grizz had turned enough of his attention away from his beloved mistress to stare at him. Crouching so his face was level with Tabitha's pillow, Joe called her name again, speaking so softly that even the other robots' Mecha hearing couldn't pick it up.

  
  


"Keep talking!" the nurse said again, sweeping from the room.

  
  


Doctor Spencer followed her in a few minutes later. He strode to Tabitha's bedside, thoroughly examining every tube and wire connected to her, then checking each machine in turn, making notes on his clipboard as he noted every readout. At last he turned to the girl herself, taking her pulse, listening to her heartbeat and respirations. After he'd taken her pulse for the second time, he straightened, hanging the stethoscope around his neck. "Maybe," he said, speaking both to the nurse and Harold. "I don't know. But maybe."

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
  


Mechas are possessed of infinite patience, but Joe had never passed a longer night. He didn't move from Tabitha's side, his internal speakers playing her lullaby over and over. One part of his brain counted every second, just waiting. The rest of him stayed intensely focused on Tabitha, moving only an inch or two to give nurses and doctors more ready access to the nearest machines.

  
  


At last Harold's purely mortal body gave out, and he slumped dozing in a chair that the big head nurse had provided. Only Joe and the other two Mechas remained constantly alert, their eyes glowing faintly in the dimmed room as they kept a three-way vigil.

  
  


It was near morning by Joe's internal chronometer when the limp hand he held twitched once, then again, Tabby's pink fingers gripping his tightly for just a moment. The digits had grown noticeably cooler in the last two hours, her breathing a little easier. Joe leaned closer, watching for anything that might indicate a return to consciousness.

  
  


It came a few minutes later when her eyelids quivered, the eyes under them flicking from side to side as though in the throes of an intense dream. Roger whined softly, his tail thumping from side to side, standing with his front paws planted near her pillow. The girl took a deeper breath and her eyelids fluttered, trying to open.

  
  


Yipping, Roger bounded to Harold, jumping up on the man's chest and nipping at his arm. Tabitha's grandfather woke instantly, springing alertly to his feet. "What is it?" he demanded in alarm.

  
  


Joe only nodded towards Tabby. She shifted, moaning softly. Harold was immediately at her side, moving like a man fifty years his junior. "Tabitha?" he called softly, taking the hand opposite of Joe, careful to keep his fingers away from her IV. "Come on, honey, I know you can here me. Tabby, it's Grandpa. Joe and Grizz and Roger are right here."

  
  


"Come back to us, Tabitha," Joe whispered. "Please."

  
  


Tabitha's red head tossed restlessly and her breath hitched once or twice, then she relaxed. Her hands moved, clutching at those holding hers, then subsided. "Tabitha," Joe enticed, Grizz and Harold echoing him. Her eyes opened slowly, blinked, and focused, first on Harold, Grizz, and Roger clustered on one side, then on Joe. Her brow furrowed in confusion and pain; Joe petted the back of her hand soothingly. "You're in hospital," he told her. "There was an accident."

  
  


Her mouth opened, closed, worked a little, then opened again. "Earthquake," she corrected in a barely-heard, raspy whisper. "Hobby . . . all right?"

  
  


"The professor will be fine," Harold answered. "They operated on his legs; the doctors think he'll have a full recovery and regain full use of his legs."

  
  


Tabitha nodded, her eyes sliding stubbornly closed; she was plainly exhausted. She slipped quietly away, but into sleep, not the irretrievable depths of a coma.

  
  


Letting go of Tabitha's slack hand, Joe bounded to the other side of her bed and swept Grizz into his arms. Lifting the little bear high, he danced a quick two-step, spinning the smaller Mecha helplessly. Squirming, Grizz growled down on him. "Put me down. Joe, put me down right NOW!" the Teddy unit demanded with every atom of dignity he possessed, and it was surprising how much dignity a small, fuzzy teddy bear could have. Relenting after a few more steps, Joe halted and lowered Grizz back onto Tabby's bed, where the ruffled Mecha sat with a stony glare. 

  
  


Joe looked at Harold, grinning, and Harold smiled back, though not nearly as bright. "It's still only maybe," he cautioned.

  
  


"You don't believe that," Joe challenged.

  
  


Harold tried to keep a more serious mien, but he couldn't hold it in the face of Joe's high-wattage smile, used not to charm or cajole a nervous, resistant customer but as an expression of something he'd never really known existed, though he knew the word; hope.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

  
  


Three days later, Tabitha was sitting up and talking, awake, aware, and completely lucid. The first thing she wanted to know was what scientists were saying about the earthquake, an event unprecedented in that part of the United States. Harold could only tell her that nobody knew anything yet and the speculation was that it might be caused by a formerly dormant undersea volcano. He also told her that Cybertronics was heavily damaged, but nowhere near a total loss, and the company should be up and running in a matter of weeks, possibly months.

  
  


Professor Hobby came to see her, too. He was in a wheelchair for the duration, he said, but the orthopedic surgeons said he'd be walking in a few weeks, and completely healed in anywhere from three months to a year, depending on how willing is body was to heal, and how willing HE was to follow their directions. "They know me too well already," he said ruefully. "I have this. I want to get back to work." Glancing sidelong at Joe, who never left her bedside, he smiled. "Your friend has given me some new ideas and insights. The potential . . . can you imagine Mechas who could build other Mechas? By themselves? If that happened, the law would have to give them rights of their own, because being able to reproduce would go a long way towards fulfilling the scientific requirements to be considered a true lifeform."

  
  


"If that happened, can you imagine what people like Johnson-Johnson would do?" Tabitha snorted, unimpressed. She hesitated and considered for a moment, her brow furrowing. "Of course, if we could get Mecha destruction reclassified from destruction of property to murder, that might dampen some of the Flesh Fair enthusiasm . . ." she trailed off thoughtfully.

  
  


Joe didn't contribute, but he didn't believe many humans would be receptive to the pair's radical ideas, though it was interesting to watch Allen Hobby's transformation. He had been talking of Mechas as though they were truly people without even realizing it, and when Harold's friend TX-7G, or Tix as Brett had dubbed him, had come into Tabby's room to fix a burnt-out lamp, the professor seemed fascinated by the ancient Mecha in a friendly, good-natured way.

  
  


It didn't take Tabitha long to get restless sitting in her room. As soon as the drainage tubes and IV came out, she asked Joe to take her to the lobby for a change of scenery. The nurses hovered protectively as he helped seat her in the wheelchair, handling her as carefully as if she were made of blown glass, but the big head nurse, Betty Roberts, had taken a liking to him and shooed them away. Joe and Tabby both smiled gratefully at her as Joe wheeled her out of the room.

  
  


Settling her by the window, Joe traced a finger over her cheekbone. She caught it, drawing his hand close to kiss the back of it, then frowned. "Joe, I'm sorry, I should have thought of it before. Could you please bring a pitcher of water? I'd rather have caffeine, but they won't let me."

  
  


"Of course, daaahhhling," he answered, drawing out the last word, highly exaggerating his accent. Tabby smiled and giggled, squeezing his hand. Joe bent down to plant a small kiss on her forehead before making his way to the nurse's station.

  
  


When he returned, he found Tabby staring out the window, her mouth curved down pensively. "What is it?" he asked, crouching beside her.

  
  


"'The waters and the wild.' He's still out there somewhere, isn't he? Your David," Tabitha whispered, still staring out across the distant blue sparkle of the ocean.

  
  


"Yes."

  
  


Hanging her head, Tabitha sighed deeply. "No one ever tried to find him?"

  
  


"I never questioned it."

  
  


"Maybe someone should," Tabby said fervently. "He can't be left alone out there."

  
  


"He's not alone," Je said, recalling the gruff little Teddy with the boy Mecha, smaller and somewhat simpler than Grizz, but no less devoted to his master and no less wise in his simple bear way. "You said he'd be better off out there."

  
  


"I know, but I hate it," the girl replied savagely. Tears sparkled in her eyes but did not fall. 

  
  


Joe reached up, brushing the side of her face. "I think you were right," he murmured. "His wishes will never be fulfilled, unless he finds his blue fairy. A heart can be taught, but not truly changed."

  
  


Tabitha stared at him, and slowly nodded. Her eyes dropped sadly, and fell on the objects he had set at her feet. Not only had he brought icy water in one of the ubiquitous plastic pitcher-and-glass hospital sets, he had also somehow acquired a can of diet soda. Condensation formed on the can in beguiling proof of it's perfect coldness. "Joe, you're a wonder," she half-grinned.

  
  


"As always, milady," Joe replied gaily, stepping into her line of sight, effectively cutting off her view of the water. 

  
  


Tabitha laughed, for the first time since she'd awakened in the hospital.

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

  
  


Joe was by her side when she took her first shaky, painful steps, Grizz and Roger standing with Harold encouragingly on the sidelines. The nurses had gotten used to Joe's charming presence, and had even ceased taking umbrage when he refused to let them perform much of Tabitha's care. Nurse Roberts commented once that she wished half the nurses under her were as gentle and considerate as Joe was, and stated bluntly that she was "as jealous as hell" of Tabitha's relationship with the Mecha. Joe only smiled an extra-sexy grin at her, until Tabby poked him in the ribs and told him to knock it off, though she was teasing rather than angry.

  
  


Only two days before her release date, the phone in her room rang. It had video capabilities, but she shook her head when Joe asked if she wanted it turned on. "Never liked the things," she muttered before taking the receiver. "Yeah?"

  
  


She listened for a long time, growing paler with each passing minute. "But what did his girlfriend say?" she gasped at last. Listening for another long while, she finally smiled wanly. "I bet the lawyers loved every minute of that one," she grunted. "Yeah, thanks, Simone. Yeah, you can give the lawyer this number. I'll have to deal with it eventually, it might as well be now."

  
  


Hanging up the phone, Tabitha flopped back on her pillows, grimacing and holding a hand to her abdomen. "Wow," she said. 

  
  


"What is it?" Harold asked, sitting on the edge of his seat. "What happened?"

  
  


Tabitha grinned silently just to annoy her grandfather for a minute, then relented. "You won't believe this, but Rick left the bar to me," she told her audience.

  
  


"What? But . . . that doesn't make sense," Harold protested. "Why would you be in his will? Why would he have a will? He wasn't more than ten years older than you!"

  
  


"Don't ask me. Did anything Rick ever do make sense?" Tabitha answered. "Apparently, he was going to offer me a permanent management position and just use Edward as my assistant, or something. He said I was the best thing that had ever happened to his nightclub," she finished with a blush.

  
  


"And you were," said Harold. "Well . . . this is . . . interesting."

  
  


"You might as well tell her now," Grizz intoned in his deep, growly voice.

  
  


"Tell me what?" Tabitha asked suspiciously.

  
  


"Well . . . Professor Hobby said not to tell you until tomorrow," the old man hedged.

  
  


"And he's already been released. He said goodbye this morning," Tabitha countered. "So spill."

  
  


"Professor Hobby and Cybertronics paid the cost of the police amphicopter. In full," Harold told her. "They felt the entire incident was their fault, and said it was the least of what they could do. Hobby said something about poor retribution." Smiling, Harold shrugged. "They tried to replace my 'copter, too, but the insurance company already has."

  
  


Tabby shook her head. "Wow," she said again.

  
  


"You said it," supplied a new, unfamiliar voice, as heavily accented as Joe's but deeper, and with a different twang. Tabby looked around the room, seeing nothing, until her eyes finally settled on the Mecha dog sprawled on the foot of her bed. "Roger . . ."

  
  


The dog gazed defensively at Harold. "If you can tell her yours, I can tell her mine," he insisted, and grinned his doggy grin. 

  
  


Tabitha's mouth hung open; Harold and the two Mechas just smiled at her. "But how?" she asked.

  
  


"Joe told Professor Hobby about Roger and Grizz," Harold explained. "Allen and I got together, with the help of Tix, and . . ."

  
  


"He said I reminded him of an Australian shepherd," Roger said in apparent explanation. 

  
  


Tabitha finally closed her gaping jaw, just to open it again in a delighted laugh. "I don't believe it!" she crowed. "Roger, that's great!"

  
  


Tail thumping, Roger jumped into her lap, licking her face.

  
  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

  
  


Home. They were finally, finally going home. All of them.

  
  


"I am most grateful," said the newest member of the family in his slightly crackling voice.

  
  


"I wasn't about to let you be dumped, Tix," Harold grunted. "Poor Brett was crying when he came into the room. Told him they'd finally replaced you. He quit on the spot, you know."

  
  


"Brett is a good boy," Tix agreed.

  
  


"Hey, I'm gonna need all the help I get running the new bar," Tabitha said, sliding gingerly into place in the new blue 'copter that exactly matched her favorite shade of Joe's eyes. She snuggled deep into her lover's arms, still moving stiffly but undoubtedly on the mend. "Good thing, too. Joe's offered to help. I was starting to wonder what he was going to do with himself now he's out of a job."

  
  


"He's good with details," Harold supplied thoughtfully. "I thought he'd make a good private investigator."

  
  


Tabby stared at her grandfather, then started to giggle, her face slowly turning a deep, fetching pink. "Grandfather!"

  
  


The four Mechas looked at each other, then at the two Orgas. "What's 'e babbling on about?" Roger demanded.

  
  


Tabitha couldn't hold back a full-throated laugh any longer. "Can you imagine," she choked between guffaws. "Gigolo Joe, Private Dick?"

  
  


Grizz just growled.


End file.
